Double Exposure
by the lurker
Summary: Quincy must risk his life to help the FBI put away a notorious felon.
1. Chapter 1

QUINCY, M.E.

"Double Exposure"

The man in the shadows felt the sweat trickle down his neck and then slide under his shirt down his back. It didn't matter how many years he had been dedicated to his vocation, certain aspects of it never became easier. It wasn't the killing that bothered him; he didn't care about that. It wasn't even the bodies that he sometimes had to dispose of afterward. Instead, what bothered him was the smells associated with his line of work. Blood, gunsmoke, decay, and guts -- the insides were always the worst. There was just nothing glamorous about innards.

He waited diligently for the mark to exit the restaurant. He glanced at his watch; they'd been in there for more than three and a half hours already, and while he understood the delicacies of wanting to get laid and working the territory, he had a plane to catch. He wished he was already on the redeye heading back to New York: Los Angeles simply annoyed him. The door to the front of the restaurant opened again, and finally the mark and the woman he was with walked out. From the giggling and larger than life gestures, the hitman guessed that they had consumed at least two bottles of wine with dinner. He smiled; at least the guy had a good time at his last meal. He checked the fit of the silencer on the end of the gun, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Lining up the sights on his rifle, he waited.

The mark opened the passenger door for the woman, and helped her get in. "Thanks, baby," she cooed before she kissed him softly on the lips.

The man with the gun kept his eye focused in the nightscope and waited. The mark walked around the front of the car, opened the driver door and climbed in. He waited as the man leaned over to the woman, lightly kissing her mouth. After a little breather, the man leaned in and opened his mouth to her, kissing her deeply. The hitman waited: the least he could do was let the guy die happy. New York didn't specify how it should be done, just that it needed doing and it was on him to take care of it in LA and not Vegas. The man finally lifted his mouth from the woman's and reached for the ignition. It was the last thing he did before the man with the gun squeezed the trigger, hitting the mark in the back of the head, the propulsion of the bullet catapulting through skull, brain matter, tissue, and then skull again, flying out the front side, and through the windshield of the car.

The woman screamed, but as the shooter had pre-determined, her type wasn't about to stay and answer any questions from the cops. She grabbed her purse and fled the vehicle, running for the street, quickly disappearing into the night. He looked at his watch: plenty of time to make it to the airport. If he wanted, he could stop at Tail o' the Pup on La Cienega and grab a chili dog before catching his flight. The Pup was the closest thing to a New York dog he had ever found on the west coast. He scrunched up his nose; he hoped he wouldn't have to return for a long time to come.

* * *

Sam yawned as he poured himself a cup of coffee; it had been a late night closing out the Hanrahan case, and he wasn't looking forward to the workload the day was promising. He took a sip from his mug, and set it down on the desk in the main lab, next to the bag of personal effects that belonged to the victim who was waiting for preliminary screening in the autopsy room. Sam walked through the double doors and into the lab, washing his hands at the large sink in the corner before touching anything in the room. He moved over to the body bag on the exam table and unzipped it: but nothing could have prepared Sam Fujiyama for the sight that greeted him.

"Oh God..." Sam cried, stumbling backward against another table. He covered his mouth with his hand and felt his eyes flood with tears, his breathing excelerating faster than he could possibly regulate.

Mark walked into the room from the side doors and Sam's ashen face scared him. He quickly moved to Fujiyama, grasping him gently by the forearms. "Sam? What is it? What's the matter?"

"The body," was all Sam could say before emotion choked off his voice.

Mark couldn't imagine what would cause a seasoned technician like Sam to lose it: until he turned toward the body and felt his stomach fly into his throat. "Oh Jesus...it's--" Sam's hand on his shoulder stopped him from saying it out loud. He looked into Fujiyama's eyes and swallowed hard, his voice a whisper, "What are we gonna do?"

Forcing himself to clamp down on his emotions, Sam gritted his teeth. "I want you to close off this room, and keep everyone out. Mark, I mean no one gets in."

"I understand."

Fujiyama started toward the door. "I'm going to wait for Asten; he's got to be told before anyone else finds out."

"Sam...Asten's not gonna handle this well."

"I know."

Sam walked out the door and Mark stared down into the face of the man he greatly respected, unable to fathom how he had ended up on an exam table in the morgue.

"How could this have happened?" Mark whispered to the corpse.

But lying cold on his own table, Quincy couldn't tell him.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam paced inside Asten's office, waiting for the director of the Los Angeles County Coroner's office to arrive for the day. He didn't relish being the one to tell Dr. Robert Asten that his chief deputy medical examiner and friend was in the morgue on one of his own tables. For as much as Asten and Quincy could argue, Sam knew the love and respect that was between them; losing Quincy would tear the director apart.

The door to the office opened then, and Asten walked in, surprised to see Sam Fujiyama waiting for him. He was about to comment upon it when his eyes met Sam's and Asten knew something dreadful had happened. For a long moment, the two men stood frozen, staring at each other, fear the only moving force in the room. Slowly, Asten set his briefcase down on a chair and walked over to Sam.

He couldn't cover the apprehension in his voice, "Sam, what's wrong?"

Giving voice to such a truth was even harder than Sam could have imagined, and although he tried desperately to hold back his tears, they spilled down his cheeks. Asten felt the blood ice over in his veins, and his brow crinkled, as he put a soft hand on Fujiyama's shoulder.

Sam's voice shook with emotion, "Dr. Asten...it's Quincy..."

Asten swallowed down a lump in his throat, although he tried desperately to keep his timbre matter-of-fact, "Well, what about him?"

"Dr. Asten, he's downstairs..."

Relief flooded him. "Well of course he's downstairs, Sam, he works here--"

"--N-no," Sam stuttered, "Dr. Asten, you don't understand..."

And then the truth of it hit Asten. "Oh my God, you mean he's downstairs on a table..." Sam nodded his head, and tears spilled down his face as a sob choked off in his throat. Stunned with shock, but understanding that it was up to him to stay calm, Asten squeezed the younger man's shoulder gently. "Take it easy, Sam. Do you know anything about the circumstances?"

"No sir," Sam managed to answer, "I told Mark to keep the lab closed and then came up here to wait for you. I haven't looked at his personal effects or--" But Sam's voice broke, unable to say anything more.

Asten pat Sam's shoulder and slid his arm around him. "You did the right thing. Come on, let's go down there together..."

* * *

Asten walked slowly up to the table, and as Quincy's still face came into view, a bullet hole in his forehead, Asten felt the moisture sting his eyes. Blinking back his tears, he stepped closer, placing a soft hand on Quincy's forehead; and the senseless violence of the gunshot wound in his friend's skull made Asten shake with anger.

His voice was barely a whisper, "My God, who would do this to him?" Asten swallowed down the bile that had risen in his throat. "Why Quincy? Why?"

"Why what?"

The familiar voice that sounded from behind him drained what little color was left in Asten's face. He turned just as Sam burst into the room, clutching a wallet.

"Dr. Asten--" Sam stopped and stared at the chief deputy medical examiner. "Quince? Oh Quince!"

Sam moved to Quincy, gripping his arms hard, tears welling up in his eyes. Not understanding the emotionality of either Sam or Asten, Quincy stared from Fujiyama to the director.

"What the heck's the matter with the two of you? You'd think I'd just come back from the dead or something."

Asten started to respond, but Sam waved him off, handing him the wallet, which he inspected as Fujiyama moved Quincy toward the door.

"Sorry Quince, it's just been kind of a rough morning," Sam offered in explanation.

"Well what's--"

Asten put an arm around Quincy's shoulder, moving him through the lab doors. "--I'll tell you all about it, Quincy, but up in my office. Can you give me about ten minutes? Just wait for me up there..."

Quincy stared into Asten's dark eyes, which were slightly wet with tears, and he frowned. "Are you all right, Dr. Asten?"

Asten nodded at him. "I'm sorry, Quincy, yes, I'm all right now." Uncharacteristically Asten cuffed the medical examiner behind the head, patting him gently. "I'm all right now." He let go of Quincy and turned to Fujiyama. "Sam, a moment please..." Quincy watched in fascination as the two men moved off and he started back for the lab door, but Asten bellowed at him, "Quincy! Stay out of there. Just go to my office and wait for me. That's an order."

The medical examiner muttered as he turned for the elevators, mimicking his boss, "Stay out of there...that's an order...hmmph..."

Asten turned to Sam. "I need you to run the victim's fingerprints, stat."

"Dr. Asten, his driver's license said--"

"--I know what it said. Look, I need a confirmed identity before I talk to Quincy. No sense putting him through this without the basics."

"Yes sir. I can get it pushed through, no problem."

Asten was pacing in the main lab when Sam walked in with a report. "It's a positive ID, Dr. Asten. Fingerprints are a match with the national database. The decedent's name is Michael Quincy." Asten looked hard at Sam until the man continued, "An identical twin, Dr. Asten?"

"I never knew Quincy had a brother, much less a twin. Has he ever mentioned it to you, Sam?"

"No sir."

Asten nodded, and headed for the elevators, wondering where he'd find the strength to get through the next half hour.


	3. Chapter 3

Quincy was sitting in a chair in Asten's office, bored, when Asten finally walked in. The medical examiner jumped up, irritation coloring his face.

"Ten minutes you said. It's been more like thirty! I've got work to do, and since you've made me waste so much time, I don't wanna hear how--" Quincy noticed the somber sadness of his boss' face. "Dr. Asten? What's wrong?"

Asten took Quincy by the arm and led him to the couch. "Sit down, Quincy, there's something I've got to tell you, and I'm afraid it's not going to be pleasant."

"What, did Monahan tell you to fire me again?" But Asten didn't take the bait as he normally would, and Quincy felt the first surge of pain in his belly. "Hey...there really is something wrong...what is it?"

Asten sat down next to the medical examiner on the couch, a sick feeling of foreboding steadily rising in his chest. He tried to work up the nerve to broach the subject, but Asten found he just couldn't say it. Wordlessly he handed Quincy the wallet Sam had given him in the lab. The medical examiner opened it and all the color drained from his face.

Asten's voice was soft and gentle, "He is your brother then..."

Quincy nodded in shock and said, "Why do you have this?"

Asten stared into the gray eyes and he saw the tears well up in them as logical understanding began to dawn. "I'm sorry, Quincy, I truly am."

"How did it happen?" He asked softly.

"Gunshot wound." Asten noted that Quincy didn't seem surprised nor did he comment, but instead just stared at the wallet in his hands. "I never knew you had a brother, Quincy, much less a twin..."

"We've been estranged for years." And then the reality of how the body on the table must have appeared to both Sam and Asten hit him. "You thought he was me..."

Asten nodded, looking away in embarrassment. "Yes."

The medical examiner put a caring hand on the director's forearm. "I'm sorry, Dr. Asten, for causing a shock like that."

"Never mind about us, Quincy. You're the one I'm worried about."

The medical examiner stood, staring again at the wallet in his hands. "Don't be. Michael and I have neither seen nor spoken to each other in twenty years."

"Even so, Quincy, he was your brother, and this kind of violent death is particularly difficult for family members to cope with." Asten stood behind the doctor then, gently settling a hand on his shoulder. "Take a few days off, Quincy. Sam and I can handle things here."

"No," Quincy growled, turning to face Asten. "My brother was murdered. And that has to be investigated, and I'm going to start by doing the autopsy."

"You most certainly are not."

"But--"

"--No." Asten's voice was firm, "Under no circumstances will I allow you to perform this autopsy." His voice softened then as the sad gray eyes pierced his heart. "You're too close, and you know it. I don't even want you in the room, Quincy, or for that matter, the building. I want you at home, resting." The gray eyes silently fought with him, and he said, "If the situation were reversed, you'd never allow me in the lab and you know it."

Quincy nodded. "I know. You're right. It just hurts being so helpless." He swallowed hard and looked into Asten's comforting brown eyes. "I'd like to see him if I could."

"Of course, Quincy. We...we need a positive ID from the next of kin anyway..."

Quincy looked up into Asten's eyes, and the director could see a vulnerability that was terribly unfamiliar in the sea of gray. "Will you come with me?"

Asten's face filled with raw emotion as he put an arm around Quincy. "Of course I will. You're not going to be alone through any of this, Quincy, I promise you."

Quincy's throat suddenly closed up with affection, and all he could do was nod.

* * *

Sam walked into the lab in front of Asten and Quincy. Fujiyama moved to the exam table on the far side of the body bag. He looked up at Asten, who wrapped a protective arm around Quincy and then nodded to Sam. Fujiyama unzipped the bag and peeled it back to reveal the dead man's face. And Quincy slammed his eyes shut against the sight of his twin lying dead on a table in his morgue, and his head dropped down in grief.

"It's him," Quincy whispered, "It's Michael."

Asten nodded at Sam who closed the bag back up, and gently the director turned to move the medical examiner toward the door; but Quincy's legs suddenly turned into concrete blocks, and he could no longer pull enough air into his lungs to breathe. Guilt and finality settled into his heart like a lead weight, and the sob that issued from his lips was so mournful that it caused the tears welling up in Asten's eyes to sting as he fought to hold them back. Unable to stand the sight of Quincy breaking apart, Asten impetuously pulled the coroner into his chest, holding the man tightly.

Asten's voice sounded soft and gentle, trying to soothe him. "Easy Quincy, just take it easy." But the sobs turned into irrepressible weeping and Asten felt the medical examiner's legs begin to buckle. "Sam, help me get him into his office."

"Yes sir," Fujiyama answered, trying unsuccessfully to cover his own spiraling emotions.

Together the two men helped Quincy move quickly through the main lab, and into his own office. Asten settled his deputy chief coroner onto the couch, and sat down next to him.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Asten," Quincy said through tears of grief, "I'm sorry..."

The director took Quincy's wrist in his hand, checking his pulse, and he pitched his voice as calmly as he knew how, "It's all right, Quincy. I'd like you to just relax a little for me." But the medical examiner's breaths were coming in shorter and shorter gasps. Asten gripped Quincy's outstretched hand tightly in his own and put his other behind the doctor's neck, gently massaging him. "Quincy, I want you to listen to me. I need you to slow down and catch your breath." Quincy's grip on Asten's hand tightened as it became more difficult to draw air. "Sam," Asten barked, "get a bag, he's hyperventilating." Asten moved his hand from Quincy's neck and rubbed it soothingly over his back. "Breathe slowly, try and calm down..."

Sam handed the bag to Quincy who gripped it with both hands, holding it to his mouth. After a minue or two, his breath began to slow down and even out. Asten exchanged a worried glance with the technician, and Fujiyama knelt in front of Quincy then, his hand resting on the coroner's knee.

"It's gonna be okay, Quince," Sam assured, "It'll be okay."

His breathing finally calm, Asten pulled Quincy's hands down, taking the bag from him, setting it aside. "Better?" Quincy nodded and Asten said, "No chest pains or anything like that?" The medical examiner shook his head, and gently Asten leaned Quincy back against the pillows of the couch. "Just lie back for a few minutes, I want to check you over."

The coroner laid a soft hand on Asten's arm. "It's not necessary, Dr. Asten, really, I'm fine now; it was just the shock of it, that's all."

"I'll be the judge of that, Quincy." He turned to Fujiyama. "Sam, would you bring me a stethoscope, bp monitor, and a syringe loaded with five cc's of valium, please?"

"Valium?" Quincy balked, "I don't need a tranquilizer." But as he yelled at Asten, he felt a burning sensation in his abdomen, and he suddenly became light-headed.

"Quincy?"

"It's nothing, Asten," the medical examiner ground out, pressing a hand into his belly.

"Sam, add 10 cc's of cimetidine to that list."

"Yes sir," Fujiyama responded on his way out the door.

Another wave of dizziness and nausea passed over Quincy, and he put a hand to his head, trying to steady himself.

"You feeling light-headed, Quincy?"

"A bit."

Asten's worry was compounding and he was glad when Sam arrived with the gear he'd asked for. "Monahan's waiting outside, Dr. Asten. He wants to talk to you."

"The lieutenant will keep for a few minutes."

The director removed Quincy's jacket and unbuttoned the top half of his shirt. Using the stethoscope he listened to the doctor's chest, and then rolling up a sleeve, he measured the man's blood pressure. Asten let out a little whistle.

"I'm running a little high, huh?" Quincy commented.

"If it were any higher, Quincy, you'd launch into orbit. Sam, load a syringe with 5cc's of valium." Fujiyama complied, handing Asten the shot. "This'll prick a little," he muttered to the medical examiner.

"I know that," Quincy snarled. And Asten not so gently injected the liquid into his arm. "Ow!"

Ignoring the sour look on his medical examiner's face, the director glanced at him over his glasses. "Any tightness in your chest, Quincy?"

"No." He frowned at Asten. "Did you hear something in the rhythm?"

"Your heart's working a little harder than normal, but there was no arrhythmia." Quincy let out a long sigh of air, rubbing a hand over his stomach. "Sam," Asten said, "cimetidine, 10cc's..."

Fujiyama handed him a glass with a chalky liquid. "Here, Dr. Asten."

Asten handed it to the medical examiner. "Drink it down, Quincy."

But the doctor made a face. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, you do." Quincy quickly slammed the liquid down, scrunching his face up at the bitter taste.

"I really don't think that I need all of this..."

"Right now, I'm the doctor, Quincy, and I want you to rest for a little while. Come on," Asten helped the coroner lie down on the couch, "just relax."

He picked up a blanket from a nearby chair and covered Quincy with it, and Sam gently put a pillow under the medical examiner's head. Quincy could feel the valium grabbing hold of him as his eyelids grew heavy.

"Dr. Asten?"

"Yes, Quincy?"

"You'll be the one to do it?"

Asten didn't need to ask what; he sat on the edge of the couch and pat his dear friend's hand. "Yes, I'm going to do it. Now just close your eyes, don't worry about a thing and rest."

As soon as Quincy had dropped off, Asten stood, pulling Sam to the door with him. "I want you to keep everyone out of here for the next few hours while I perform the autopsy. I don't want Quincy disturbed under any circumstances - clear?"

"Yes, Dr. Asten."

"And Sam?"

"Yes sir?"

"If anything..."

"I'll come get you."

Sam noted the worried look on Asten's face as he stepped out of the office, closing the door behind him. Fujiyama sat down in the chair nearest the couch, and looked at the peaceful face of Dr. Quincy. And a shiver ran through him: he looked just like his brother had lying on the exam table in the autopsy room.


	4. Chapter 4

As soon as Asten emerged from the door to Quincy's office, Monahan pounced on him. "Who's the guy down in the lab? Where's Quincy? Is he all right?"

Asten held his hands up in a defensive posture. "Easy, lieutenant, Quincy's okay. The 'guy' down in the lab is his twin brother."

"His what?"

"You heard me."

"I didn't know Quincy had a brother."

Asten moved Monahan toward a more secluded spot. "Join the club of the uninformed..."

Monahan stared into the dark brown eyes of the director. "Is Quincy really okay?"

"Yes."

"Well lemme talk to him then..."

Asten grabbed Monahan by the arm as the man moved back toward Quincy's office. "Not now, lieutenant. Maybe later."

"Whaddya mean, maybe later? Quincy's brother's brought into the morgue with a bullet in his head and you don't want me to question Quincy?"

"Lieutenant...I gave Quincy some valium, so he's going to be out for awhile."

The statement landed squarely in the pit of Monahan's stomach, causing him to swallow hard. "You shot Quincy up with valium?"

Asten had a hard time not sounding defensive. "I needed to calm him down, lieutenant, don't make it sound like I'm turning him into some kind of junkie."

The two men stared at one another for a long moment, and then embarrassed, Monahan looked away. "I'm sorry, Dr. Asten," he said, finally glancing back at the director, "I didn't mean it that way."

Asten shook his head at himself . "And I didn't mean to bite your head off, lieutenant."

"Guess we're both a little spooked..."

"Apparently so," Asten agreed.

"How long will Quincy be out of it?"

Asten shrugged. "Two or three hours probably."

But Monahan could see that Asten hadn't told him all of it. "You're worried," he prompted.

The dark brown eyes bore into light blue. "Yes. I've never seen Quincy that shaken."

But still the cop sensed more. "And...?"

Asten's eyes narrowed into dark little slits. "And what?"

"Is Quincy really all right?"

Asten looked down at his hands. "I don't know."

"You're a doctor, aren't you?" Monahan's annoyed voice asked.

"Yes," Asten hissed, not offering anything more.

Monahan couldn't cover the worry in his voice any more than in his eyes. "Is there anything I can do?" He asked quietly.

Asten softened slightly. "No, lieutenant, not at the moment. I'm going to perform an autopsy on Quincy's brother, and as soon as the report's ready, I'll send it over."

The lieutenant nodded. "Okay." An awkward pause peppered the air around them, and finally Monahan said, "If Quincy needs anything--"

"--Thank you, lieutenant," Asten answered quickly, sensing either one or both of them was about to become emotional, "I'll keep you informed."

Monahan nodded and left the main lab, feeling as helpless as he could ever remember.

* * *

Mark stood quietly behind Dr. Asten as the director cleared his throat, preparing to speak into the lab recorder.

"Autopsy case number AF-896472, the body of Michael Quincy, male victim of a gunshot wound, approximately 56 years of age. Dr. Robert Asten, reporting. The body is 172 centimeters long, weighing 159 pounds; the victim suffered a seven point seven millimeter gunshot entrance wound in the back of the skull in the upper left quadrant, ten point six centimeters above the skull base. Exit wound is at a down angle of 13 degrees and is seven point nine millimeters in diameter in the upper right quadrant of the forehead, two centimeters above the eyebrow." Asten swallowed hard and cleared his throat again as he examined the wounds. "Both the entrance and exit wounds suggest a blunt-nose cartridge caliber, rounded possibly by a muzzle. There are no powder burns surrounding the entrance wound, indicating that the shot was fired from some distance away, and the down angle suggests the shooter was firing from above the victim."

Mark watched the sweat begin to trickle down the director's forehead as his hand reached for the scalpel. Asten swallowed the lump in his throat again and plunged the scalpel into the victim's neck below the adam's apple, slicing it all the way down, stopping in the lower abdomen. He made a cross-section cut from side to side and then reached for the rib splitters. After inserting the device and cranking it to separate the ribcage making examination easier, Mark noticed the man's pallor.

"Dr. Asten, are you all right?"

"Uh-huh," Asten managed to say, "Yes, I'm fine."

He continued the exam, weighing each organ, and reporting the condition and weight into the recorder. When he was finished with the organs, he took the saw, powered it and prepared to open the skull. And Dr. Asten felt bile rising from his stomach. He swallowed it down, but his hands shook slightly. Mark stepped forward then, and gently removed the saw from his hands, turned it off and set it on the instrument table. The young assistant reached over and shut off the recorder.

"Dr. Asten, why don't we take a break?"

Asten stood frozen, staring at the familiar face on the table, constantly reminding himself that it wasn't his medical examiner lying there dead. "This is a little tougher than I thought it was going to be," the director uttered.

Mark nodded. "Understood, sir. Let's take five minutes, I could use a breather away from this room myself..."

Asten looked at the young man and smiled. "No, Mark, let's get this finished. The sooner the better."

Asten turned on the lab recorder again, picked up the saw, and turned on the power. He dug it into the victim's skull, sending splinters of bone out into the air. He peeled away the flesh, and examined the entrance and exit wounds once more. "No powder burns, but both wounds display an odd edge on the right side. Ballistic tests will have to be conducted to determine the cause of the jaggedness if a weapon and bullet can be found, but it could be from a scratch in the gun barrel itself, or possibly from a silencer. Given the amount of rigor mortis, the apporximate time of death can be set between 11 pm and two am."

Mark observed as the director expertly measured and examined the skin and skull from every angle, diligently reporting his findings into the microphone in front of him. Finally, after three hours of careful work, Asten turned the microphone off, covered the body and removed his gloves. He looked wrung out.

"Mark, can you be sure the body is properly tagged and stored?"

"Yes sir."

"And I'll want the results on the tox and bloods as soon as possible." Asten started for the door, and then turned back. "Thanks for your help, Mark."

"You're welcome, Dr. Asten."

Asten pulled his outer gown off, and tossed it into the bin outside the lab doors. He leaned his back against the wall for a minute, and let out a long sigh of air. He felt sick.

"Dr. Asten? Is everything all right?"

Asten wearily looked up at the guard. "Yes, Pete, everything's fine, thanks."

"You look a little peaked."

"Yes," Asten said as he moved away from the wall, "I'm a little tired."

Pete observed the director, still wearing green scrubs, walk through the main lab, and disappear into Dr. Quincy's office door.

Asten quietly closed the door behind him and glanced at Fujiyama. "How is he, Sam?"

"Still asleep," Fujiyama answered quietly. "Is the autopsy finished?"

"Yes. Victim died from gunshot trauma to the head. Bullet went into the back of his skull, passed through the left hemisphere of the brain, crossing over into the right, and then back out through his forehead. The velocity must have been terrific because it splintered the skull where it exited."

Sam shook his head. "It's so odd to think that Quincy had a twin, much less that the man was shot through the head in a restaurant parking lot..."

"You've seen a preliminary police report?"

"Yes, Sgt. Brill brought it by awhile ago. It's over there on Quincy's desk."

Asten picked up the manilla folder. "For now, Sam, let's keep this between us."

"If you think that's best, Dr. Asten..."

The director looked down at Quincy, worry filling his dark brown eyes. "Yes, Sam, for now, I think it's best." Asten put the folder under his arm, walked over to Quincy and felt the beat in the man's wrist. "Pulse is better, slower and stronger."

"The valium seemed to do the trick."

Asten looked at his watch. "He should be coming out of it soon. Monahan's going to want to speak with him." His eyes flicked down into Sam's. "I want to talk with Quincy first. Call me the moment he awakens."

"Yes, Dr. Asten."

Without another word, Asten walked through the door, still carrying the manilla folder under his arm. Sam wondered what it was he had seen flash through the dark brown eyes a split second before Asten left the room; but the logical part of him reasoned that he was somehow better off not knowing.


	5. Chapter 5

Still wearing his green scrubs, Asten sat in his dark brown chair, reading the preliminary police report.

_The decedent's body was discovered by the bartender as he left the premises of 8570 Sunset Blvd. The bartender, James W. Duvall CDL N811590003, locked the back door of the restaurant and proceeded southwest to the parking lot, where he discovered a light blue metallic 1975 BMW 2002 CA registration 937 MKY, VIN#W95668425552 with its passenger door standing wide open at approximately 3:10 AM. He looked inside the car and discovered the decedent, presumed to be Michael Quincy pending final identification from the LACC, sitting in the driver's seat, a bullet wound in his head. Duvall went back inside his place of employment and called the police. The nearest responding unit, ADAM-23, arrived at 3:16 AM, whereupon officers Stahl and Brown secured the crime scene and called for a homicide unit. After questioning Duvall, it was determined that the decedent and an unidentified woman with him left the restaurant between 11:00 PM and midnight._

_Homicide officers responding were Lark and Jackson who determined that the bullet trajectory sent it through the windshield, confirmed by the crack and hole, and into the wall of the building residing at 8570 Sunset Blvd. They searched the wall of 8570 and retrieved a 7mm bullet, likely fired from a .280 Remington, aka 7mm Express Remington. Further ballistic tests will be needed to determine trajectory and possible weapons._

_After a search of the area, no weapon was discovered, nor any evidence of a shooter such as a casing or cartridge. The area has been sealed off pending further investigation by the homicide unit. The preliminary report from the LACC will also help determine trajectory and confirm the caliber of the weapon. Car was dusted for prints and two sets were lifted and are being run for identification. Following body removal by the on-duty coroner, the car was towed to police impound downtown where it can be fully investigated. Bullet hole in rear windshield indicates that the fatal shot was fired from above, most likely the rooftop of 8572. A search of the area was performed, but no evidence of a shooter was found. LAPD is currently determining the identity of the unknown female. A preliminary report run through the California justice system on Michael Quincy produced no outstanding wants or warrants. A further investigation will be conducted on the national system._

Asten sighed as he closed the manilla folder. They weren't much further ahead having performed the autopsy. He picked up the plastic bag containing all of the personal effects removed from Michael Quincy's clothing: a wallet, comb, keys, plane ticket, handkerchief and a skeleton key attached to a claim stub. Asten turned the claim stub over and read it: 483227 The Golden Tree. He examined the contents of the wallet, but it held nothing out of the ordinary. Michael Quincy's driver's license was issued by the state of Nevada, and his home address was in Las Vegas. The plane ticket was a morning flight for the following day out of LAX to JFK. Asten turned the claim stub over in his fingers, wondering why a key was attached to it.

His thoughts were interrupted by the buzzer on his intercom.

"Dr. Asten," his secretary's voice intoned, "Sgt. Brill is here to see you."

Instinctively Asten shoved the claim stub and key into his jacket pocket and then put all the other effects back into the plastic bag. He pressed a button on the intercom.

"Send him in, Patsy, thank you." Brill entered the office, closing the door behind him. "Good afternoon, Sergeant," Asten said, "what can I do for you?"

Brill stopped right in front of the desk. "Lt. Monahan was wondering if you had a prelim autopsy report we could look at."

"Well, my secretary is still transcribing the tape and putting together the pictures and prelim screening analyses, but she should have it for you within the hour."

"Good. The lieutenant's a little jumpy about this one."

"Understandable," Asten said, "I think we're all a little edgy, considering the situation."

"Yeah."

Asten handed Brill the plastic bag. "Here are the decedent's personal effects."

Brill noted Asten's avoidance in using the man's name, and decided to follow suit. "Thank you, I'll be sure the lieutenant gets it. Is ...is the doc doing okay?"

Asten's lips puckered slightly. "He's resting at the moment, but I think he'll be all right, yes. I'm planning on sending him home and telling him to stay there for a few days. I don't want him involved in any of this, he's just too close."

Brill nodded. "All right, well, Lt. Monahan asked me to remind you that he'll need to speak with Quincy before the day's out."

"I haven't forgotten, Sergeant," Asten snapped.

"Uh, no sir, I'm sure you haven't."

Asten looked down and cleared his throat. "Sorry...Guess I am feeling slightly overprotective at the moment."

"That's to be expected," Brill countered, causing Asten's eyebrows to arch up slightly, wondering what the cop was implying with such an observation.

"Yes, well, if there's nothing further, Sergeant..."

"No, Dr. Asten, that's it for now. I'm just going to wait in the outer office for the prelim. Give the lieutenant a call when it's okay for him to speak with Quincy."

"Very well."

Brill turned and walked out the door, closing it behind him. Asten let out a sigh of air and pulled the claim check and key from his pocket. He wasn't sure why he had done it, but something had caused him to hold it aside, wanting Quincy to see it first. Asten shook his head slightly at himself: obviously he had spent too much time around his deputy chief coroner, because he had just held back evidence from the police department with the intention of investigating it himself first. He lowered his head into his hands, groaning, and the buzz from his intercom made him start. He stabbed the button.

"What?"

"I'm...sorry sir," Patsy's voice stuttered, "but Sam Fujiyama called to tell you that Dr. Quincy would like to see you."

"All right, Patsy, thank you."

Asten shoved the claim check and key back into his pocket and slipped out the side door to his office, quickly heading for the elevators. He hoped Brill had wandered off for coffee or something and hadn't heard his secretary's announcement about Quincy. But somehow Asten knew his luck just wasn't that good.

* * *

Quincy's pallor struck him immediately upon entering the room, and Asten frowned. "Quincy? You okay?"

"Yeah," came the weak response.

Asten glanced at Sam, whose look he was sure mirrored his own concern. He sat down on the couch next to the medical examiner, and put a hand on the man's forehead; but it felt cool. He picked up Quincy's wrist and looked at the second hand of his own watch; his pulse was a little too fast.

The director didn't try to cover the concern in his voice, "You're not feeling very well, are you?"

Quincy shook his head. "Not really." The gray eyes pierced Asten's with their vulnerability. "Please tell me what you found..."

Asten swallowed the lump in his throat. "Are you sure you're up to this right now, Quincy?" He exchanged a concerned look with Sam, then stared into the gray eyes. "I'm a little worried about you."

"I'm okay, really. But I'd like to know what happened to Michael."

"All the preliminary data indicates death was caused by a single gunshot to the head. The bullet entered the upper left quadrant and pierced the brain, traveled across to the right hemisphere and then pushed back out in the upper right quadrant." Quincy's lips trembled slightly, and Asten put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It was very quick; I don't think your brother suffered, Quincy."

Tears fell from the medical examiner's eyes and embarrassed he looked down as he nodded. "Thank you, Dr. Asten," he whispered quietly.

The director couldn't remember ever seeing the man's eyes appear so lost, and it unsettled him.

Asten squeezed the tight shoulder under his hand. "Look, Quincy, I'd really like it if you went home now and just took a rest for a few days."

Quincy's voice remained passive and soft, the exact opposite of the man they knew so well. "I imagine that Monahan wants to talk to me..."

"Yes, he does. But that can wait if you're not up to it today. You just say so, and I'll tell him it will have to wait."

Quincy smiled at his boss sadly. "You don't have to protect me, Dr. Asten. There's nothing Monahan can say that'll make this hurt any more than it does right now..."

Quincy's desolation landed in Asten's belly like a lead weight, and he had to choke back his own emotion. "Oh Quincy...I wish to hell there was something I could do."

The medical examiner shook his head. "Michael's been heading for something like this for a long time; I just wish it'd happened in someone else's jurisdiction."

Asten frowned. "Sam," he said, "call Monahan, tell him Quincy's available now if he wants to talk to him."

"Yes, Dr. Asten. Quince? Can I get you anything?"

"No thanks, Sam."

Sam left the room and the two men sat in an awkward silence, each wanting to reach out to the other, but neither knowing how.


	6. Chapter 6

Having changed back into his suit and tie, Asten stood with his arms crossed over his chest behind his desk, a tense glare creasing his forehead. Quincy sat in one of the chairs on the other side of the desk, Brill in the other, while Monahan paced, hands in his pockets.

"You can't think of any reason your brother would have come to Los Angeles?" Monahan pushed.

The vulnerability in Quincy's voice made Asten's muscles tighten further. "I told you, lieutenant, my brother and I haven't spoken in 20 years, I have no idea what he was doing here. He's a corporate lawyer in Las Vegas, that's all I know."

But the seasoned cop could sense the doctor's reticence. "Quincy, your brother was shot to death in a parking lot off Sunset Blvd., and all the evidence points to a professional hit. Are you gonna just sit there and pretend you can't think of any reason why?"

The coroner's jaw clenched slightly, which wasn't lost on Monahan. "We didn't speak, I don't know anything about my brother's business."

"All right, fine. Tell me why you stopped speaking to each other."

Quincy's angry eyes darted up to Monahan's. "That's none of your business."

"It is if it might help with this case. Now what the hell are you holding back, Quincy, because I can tell there's somethin'..."

"Are you calling me a liar, Monahan?"

"If the shoe fits, Quincy..."

And Asten had heard all he was going to. "All right, that's enough." He glared at Monahan. "Lieutenant, I realize you're just trying to do your job, but Quincy's been through enough for one day, don't you think?"

Frustrated, Monahan shook his head. "I'm just trying to get to the bottom of it, Dr. Asten, and I can't for the life of me understand why Dr. Truth-At-Any-Cost here suddenly has no desire to get to the facts, especially since it involves the death of his own brother."

Quincy stood in a rage, closing in on Monahan, causing Brill to stand defensively. "I told you I don't know who killed my brother," his agitated voice resonated through gritted teeth, "And if I were you, I'd leave it alone."

Monahan's brow furrowed. "Are you threatening me, Dr. Quincy?"

The medical examiner swallowed hard then, searching his friend's hurt and confused eyes. He looked away. "No," he answered softly, "no, Monahan, of course not. I'm...I'm sorry."

Quincy sat back down in his chair, no longer having the strength to remain standing. Monahan glanced up at Asten, concern coloring his light eyes. The director moved around his desk, putting a soft hand on his coroner's shoulder.

"You're overwrought, Quincy, and I'm putting an end to this right now," Asten said. "I'm sorry, Lt. Monahan, but any further questions will have to take place at a later time."

Reluctantly, Monahan nodded at Asten and motioned to Brill that it was time to leave. The sergeant headed for the door, but Monahan looked down at the medical examiner once more.

"Quincy," the lieutenant's voice softened, "I didn't mean to upset you, I just want to find out what happened to your brother."

The wet gray eyes flicked up to Monahan's face, the sadness in them slicing through the cop like a sharp knife. "I know that, Monahan. I didn't mean to take this out on you..."

Monahan looked up at Asten. "We'll try this again tomorrow, after Quincy's had a chance to get used to this whole thing, and after we've reviewed the autopsy report."

Asten nodded. "Very well, lieutenant." He waited until the two cops had exited the room, before he moved into the chair next to the coroner. "What is it, Quincy?" He asked softly.

The medical examiner's mouth pulled into a straight line. "I...I should have known I couldn't keep this quiet any longer, not after what's happened, but I wanted to give you my resignation before telling Monahan the truth..."

Asten's forehead crinkled into a deep frown. "Quincy, what are you talking about? I don't want your resignation."

"You will," the doctor's voice stated quietly. "My brother's affiliations will reflect badly on me, and by association, you and the department..."

"Quincy..."

"I said he was a corporate attorney, but that wasn't entirely truthful." He looked into Asten's eyes, which were filled with concern, and putting a voice to the truth was suddenly much harder than Quincy thought it would be. "My brother worked for the mob."

Asten's face paled. "The mob? As in the mafia? As in Jimmy Hoffa and the East River?"

"I'm afraid so, Dr. Asten." Quincy stood then. "You'll have my signed resignation in a few hours..."

Asten grabbed the man's sleeve as he turned to go. "Hold on a minute. I don't want your resignation, Quincy. I want to help you find out what happened to your brother and why."

The coroner's eyes narrowed. "Didn't you hear me, Dr. Asten? My brother was a mafia lawyer. They probably put the hit out on him, and knowing Michael, he probably deserved it."

"Quincy!"

He let out a tired sigh. "I didn't mean it exactly that way; I just meant Michael probably embezzled money or something and they found out about it. But no matter what the situation, once the media gets a hold of it, the coroner's office will be dragged through the mud because of me. The clean record of this department, everything that you, Sam, Mark and the entire staff have worked so hard for will be blemished. And I can't let that happen, Dr. Asten. I just can't."

"I have something to say about this, Quincy...and I'm not accepting your resignation."

But Dr. Asten--"

"--No. You cannot be held responsible for the sins of your brother; I'm certainly not going to do that, nor is anyone else around here. And as for the media, well, frankly, I don't care what they think."

"I appreciate your support, Dr. Asten, I really do, but what about the supervisor, the board, and all the other people you have to answer to? What are they going to say?"

"You let me worry about that, okay? For now, you should go home and get some rest, Quincy. We can talk tomorrow." Quincy stared hard at the director instead of moving, so Asten gently guided him toward the door. "I mean it, get some rest. I've asked Sam to drive you home."

"He doesn't need to--"

"--Quincy, for once, just let us take care of you and stop arguing about it."

The medical examiner nodded then, and smiled weakly. "Thanks, Dr. Asten. I really do appreciate your concern."

"Go home," Asten growled in a tone that the doctor recognized as feigned annoyance.

Quincy left the office and headed back toward the main lab and Sam Fujiyama, whom he knew would be unable to say no to him when he asked for a copy of the autopsy report on his brother.

* * *

Sam shook his head in exasperation. "Quince, please, please don't ask me to do this..."

"Sam, I need to see the report."

"But Quincy, Dr. Asten wants you to go home and take it easy. Besides, it's a conflict of interest for you to have anything to do with this case."

"I'm not gonna have anything to do with it, Sam, honest. I just wanna see the report, that's all."

Sam inhaled a long sigh of air as he handed Quincy a xerox copy inside a manilla folder.

"You already made me a copy?"

Sam simply rolled his eyes. "Don't make me regret this, Quince, please."

"Thanks Sam, I won't."

The medical examiner started for the door and Sam called out to him. "Hey, Quince, I thought I was supposed to drive you home."

"I'm fine, Sam, really, there's no need for you to go out of your way like that."

"But--"

"--I'll be fine, don't worry."

And before Sam could present any further arguments, Quincy was gone.

"Yeah, you'll be fine," Sam muttered, "But when Asten finds out, I'm sushi..."

* * *

Asten wrote down the address as it was read to him. "Yes, operator, thank you very much, I've made a note of it. Yes, thank you... good-bye."

Melissa walked into her husband's study as Asten hung up the receiver. "Honey...it's getting late, what are you still doing in here?"

"Oh, just a little investigative work, nothing more. I'm finished now," he said as he folded the piece of paper he'd been writing on, and slipped it into his pocket.

He'd been edgy and upset since he'd come home, and Melissa knew he hadn't told her everything that had transpired at work. She moved up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders, gently squeezing them. Asten groaned in response to the pressure on his taut muscles.

"Bob, you need to relax, I haven't seen you this uptight in a long time..."

"It was a pretty rough day, 'Liss."

She rubbed him for several minutes, and then she leaned over, placing a light kiss on his forehead. "Come on, let's go to bed..."

The suggestion wasn't lost on him, but there was still pressing business that he felt could not wait. He smiled at her though, holding out his arms. Melissa slid onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck, hugging him. He stretched up and kissed her lightly on the lips.

"I'll come to bed in awhile, honey, but I'm afraid there's still one thing I need to do tonight."

"Bob, what in the world could you possibly have to do at this hour that can't wait until morning?"

He sighed, kissed her quickly again, and then gently pushing her off of him, he stood. "I need to go check on Quincy."

"What?"

"Honey, he was in an awful state today, and he really wasn't feeling well when I sent him home, and..." He stared into her eyes. "'Liss, I'm not going to be able to sleep unless I know he's okay."

She smiled up at him. "For all the arguments and complaints, you're really very fond of him, aren't you?"

He kissed her sweetly on the lips. "Quincy sort of grows on people...like cancer."

She swatted him lightly. "Oh Bob, that's not funny." She looked into his tired eyes that had picked up dark rings underneath them. "Can't you just call him?"

He shook his head. "He'll just tell me what I want to hear. Look, it won't take long. I'm just going to make sure he's all right, and then I'll come right back home." He kissed her forehead. "You'll wait up for me?"

A sultry smile curved her lips. "I'll be waiting..." She kissed him again. "Don't be too long..."

"I won't."

Asten grabbed his jacket and keys, and headed for the marina.

* * *

Quincy felt his eyes sting with moisture as he read the autopsy report. He noted that Sam had kindly left out any related photos, and only included the written transcription of the autopsy itself, and the results of tox and blood screens. Still, it made for difficult reading. He set the folder down and opened a built-in drawer in the bedframe. He shuffled a few things and extracted a framed picture. The two twin boys were about six years old, and they had been playing in their father's garage. One was perfectly pristine; clean clothes, face and hands. He was holding his twin brother, who while dressed in an exact outfit, was covered from head to toe in engine oil. The grin on the clean twin's face was one of victory and dominance, a look that Quincy noted had become a hallmark of Michael's throughout his life whenever he mowed people down in the name of winning. The expression of sorrow and betrayal on Quincy's face in the photograph was also to become customary in any dealings he had with his twin brother, although all contact had ceased the day Quincy discovered his brother's connection to the mob.

Still, it hurt as if it had all taken place the day before yesterday.

The footfalls on the steps of his boat made Quincy start.

"Quincy? You down there?"

Recognizing Asten's voice, the medical examiner quickly tossed the manilla folder into the drawer of his bed, and he was wiping his eyes on his sleeve when Asten landed in his galley. The director glanced over at his coroner, noting the moisture still on his face, despite the marred attempt at wiping it away. He walked cautiously into the main room, and stood in front of the table at which Quincy was sitting. Wordlessly, Asten's eyes came to rest on the old photograph. Gently he pulled it from Quincy's hand, and admired it for a moment, a slight smile tugging at his lips. He handed it back to the coroner.

"You two must have been quite a handful..."

"Yes, I suppose so," Quincy said as he set the photograph aside, the fact that it was now laying face down did not escape the director's notice.

Asten pulled a chair out from the table. "May I?"

"Of course," came the curt reply.

An awkward air filtered through the room as the two men stared at each other, both trying to ignore the elephant sitting on the table between them. Asten finally cleared his throat and Quincy's eyes darted to the dark brown ones holding him.

"I don't mean to be rude, Dr. Asten, but, why are you here?"

Asten swallowed the lump in his throat. "I'm worried about you, Quincy."

But the medical examiner knew the man he worked for well. "While I'm sure that might be part of it, that's not why you drove all the way over here at this hour."

Asten stood then, shoving his hands in his pants pockets, pacing in front of the wooden table. "I'm...I'm not sure ...I'm not sure I've done the right thing here, Quincy."

Asten pulled his right hand from his pocket, and tossed the key with the claim stub attached onto the table. The medical examiner picked it up and stared at him. "Dr. Asten, I don't understand."

"That was with your brother's personal effects."

And then it hit him, and his eyes grew wide in surprise. "Are you telling me you removed what could be possible evidence in a murder case and withheld it from the police?"

Asten frowned. "Why does it sound so much worse when _you_ say it?"

Quincy looked at the items in his hand. "What is this for?"

Asten shrugged. "I'm not sure. I did make some preliminary calls, but so far I haven't found any place with that name."

Quincy looked at the claim stub. "The Golden Tree. Sounds like a chinese restaurant..."

"Well if it is, it isn't located here in Los Angeles."

"Why did you do this?"

Asten shrugged again. "I don't honestly know. I've never tampered with evidence in an investigation in my life. I guess I figured whatever that key belongs to is by rights yours, and you should have the first look at it. After all of your dedicated service to the department, I owed you that much." He stared into the light gray eyes. "That was of course before I found out what your brother did for a living..."

"You've had plenty of time to give this to Monahan since I told you about that."

"Guess I just didn't want to have to explain to him how it must have fallen from the bag when I went through the effects and became lost under my desk until the cleaning people found it."

Asten headed for the stairs and Quincy said, "Dr. Asten?" The dark eyes pierced Quincy with their intensity. "Thanks."

Asten started up the steps and then turned back. "You might want to try Las Vegas information next," he said as he crumpled a piece of paper in his pocket, "maybe The Golden Tree is there."

Before Quincy could comment, Asten was gone.

* * *

From their boat several slips away, two men in dark suits watched the man known as Robert Asten leave the coroner's boat, 15 minutes after he had arrived. The short one turned to the tall one.

"What do we do?"

"Boss says to get 'em both..." The tall one pulled a 9mm handgun from under his jacket, and released the safety. "Let's go."

* * *

It was well after 3am by the time Monahan pulled into the parking lot near Quincy's slip in the marina. The panicked call from Melissa Asten had prompted the cop to drive over to Quincy's when he couldn't raise the coroner on the phone, but rationale had kept him from calling it in to the precinct. He glanced over at the blue sedan parked a few spaces away and recognized it as Robert Asten's car, and in the space beyond that was the coroner's wagon that Quincy always drove: at least the two of them hadn't gone anywhere. Monahan heaved a sigh and headed toward Quincy's moored boat. He called out to them as he boarded.

"Hey, Quincy... Asten? Are the two of you drunk or something? Asten, you're wife's gonna kill you when you get home..."

He started down the stairs into the cabin when the hair on his arms stood up straight. And the instinct of a seasoned detective took over, causing Monahan to draw his weapon. He froze on the stairs and called out again.

"Quincy? Asten? It's Monahan..." Cautiously the cop descended the stairs, but he wasn't prepared for the sight which greeted him. "Jesus..."

The inside of the cabin had been ripped apart, and there was no sign of either Quincy or Asten.


	7. Chapter 7

Monahan stormed into the precinct, anger permeating every fiber of his being. Uniforms and plainclothesmen alike cleared out of his path, in fear that they might become targets if they inadvertently got in his way. The lieutenant stormed up the stairs, heading right toward the Captain's office: if he noticed the fact that all the cops on duty were staring at him, he showed no outward sign of it. As he reached for the door to the Captain's office, it swung open, startling him.

"It took you longer than I anticipated, Frank," the captain said, "come on in."

Monahan stared at the dark suits in the room and glared at his superior. "Is this party you're hostin' the reason you belayed my call for a unit to come to Quincy's boat?"

Donovan pulled Monahan into his office and closed the door behind him. "Just take a seat and listen."

"I'll do nothing of the kind. Perhaps you missed it, captain, but both the director and the chief deputy medical examiner of the Los Angeles County Coroner's office are missing, and Quincy's boat was torn apart. Whatever happened to them, it didn't happen without a fight."

The older man in the dark suit stepped forward, smiling. It made Monahan's stomach churn.

He extended his hand. "Lt. Monahan, I presume..."

Monahan stared at the man's hand, but didn't move to take it. "Yeah, and just who the hell are you?"

"Frank," Donovan admonished, "settle down."

The man in the dark suit smiled again, and it made Monahan feel sick. "It's all right, captain, I'm sure the lieutenant's had a pretty rough night. I'm Special Agent Rick Sequana, Lt. Monahan, of the F.B.I. We've been monitoring the movements of your murder victim, Michael Quincy, for a year and half now. He was about to turn state's witness with evidence that would have linked Anthony Vandano to at least a half dozen murders, money laundering, extortion and illegal gambling charges for entry into the witness protection program and probation on 18 counts of embezzlement. Vandano got the drop on us and that is incredibly unfortunate, but luckily for us, we have the opportunity to attempt a salvage operation."

Monahan glared at the man. "Salvage operation? What in the hell does that have to do with me and my murder investigation?"

"There isn't going to be any murder investigation lieutenant, because there wasn't any murder."

"What are you talkin' about? There's a body down at the morgue, and--"

"--Frank," Donovan said softly, "sit down, and listen."

"But--"

"--Frank," the captain pat his shoulder, "please just do it."

Monahan took a seat, crossed his arms and glared at the suit before him.

"The only shot we have at not losing a year and half's work on this case is by making Vandano think that Michael Quincy isn't dead."

"Well that's gonna be tough since there's a body..."

"No, there's not. The F.B.I. has seized custody on the body--"

"--how in the hell can you seize custody on a dead body?"

Monahan felt Donovan's hands land on his shoulders. "Frank, calm down and give the man a chance."

Sequana continued, "The body and all records of the body have been removed from the LACC."

"Fine, but Vandano's hitman's gonna tell him different." He glared at Donovan. "Stan, I'm sorry, but Asten and Quincy are missing, and we're just sittin' here listening to this--"

"--Your friends, Dr. Asten and Dr. Quincy are in our custody, Lt. Monahan. They're quite safe, and are being detained at the Federal Building on Wilshire."

"Detained? What are you talkin' about?"

"I'm afraid that Dr. Asten is being charged with tampering of evidence in a federal murder case."

"What? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Stan, tell him how stupid that is... if you knew Asten at all, Sequana, you'd know that you're about as far off base as you can get and still be on the same planet."

Donovan's hands squeezed Monahan's shoulders, bringing the tirade to a halt. "He's telling the truth, Frank. Asten removed a key attached to a claim stub from the personal effects bag of Michael Quincy."

"That can't be. Asten's way too hard-nosed and uptight for something like that, Stan, and we both know it."

"While your loyalty is touching, Lt. Monahan, I'm afraid we're wasting time," Sequana said.

"What about Quincy? Why are you holding him?"

"We need him as bait to lure out Vandano for us."

"You want Quincy to be a sitting duck for the mob? Given the circumstances, that's suicidal. You'll never get him to agree to it, Sequana."

But the suit smiled again, causing nausea to rise in Monahan's stomach. "That's where you're quite wrong, lieutenant. We're going to make him an offer he can't refuse..."

* * *

Quincy felt the sweat trickling down his back. "I already told you, my brother and I don't... didn't speak, I have no idea what he was doing."

The man in the gray suit leaned down on the table that barely fit into the small, hot room. "And I told you I don't believe you." He straightened up. "You're in a lot of hot water, doctor. Help yourself by helping us."

"I can't tell you anything about my brother; we were estranged, I don't even know where he was living. Look, if you're going to keep me here, I want a lawyer."

"You're not being very cooperative, Dr. Quincy."

Quincy's voice began to rise in timbre and volume. "Are you deaf or stupid? I don't know anything that can help you!"

"That's unfortunate, doctor, because you see, that friend of yours we picked up outside your boat, Asten? He's dug himself a hole so deep he'll never get out; unless of course, you help him."

Quincy felt his heart jump into his throat. "What do you mean?"

"We've got him on tampering with evidence in a federal case. That's an eight to ten year sentence in the federal pen." Quincy swallowed hard, and the man smiled. "See, if you know something, or if you would agree to maybe, help us nail Anthony Vandano...well, we might be able to make that charge against your friend go away." The man straightened his tie and licked his lips. "Maybe you could see yourself clear to help your friend, because without you, doc, he's headin' for a long and uncomfortable stay with us. You'd better think about that for awhile."

The suit headed for the door, and Quincy quickly said, "Wait." He swallowed hard, his stomach burning in pain from his ulcer. "I'll do whatever you want if you let Asten go," he said quietly.

The man smiled. "I thought you might start seeing it from our point of view."

* * *

The sun was just breaking over the eastern horizon when Asten walked out of the Federal Building.

"This is completely outrageous!"

Donovan took a hold of Asten's arm gently. "Calm down, Dr. Asten. We're working on our own plan to handle this situation, but right now we're at the mercy of the feds. Let's not make a scene right here in the front of their headquarters, or we could end up back inside under lock and key."

"Well where in the hell is Quincy? They wouldn't even tell me if he was all right."

"He's okay."

"Did you see him?"

"No, they wouldn't let me see him, but Special Agent Sequana assured me that he's fine."

Asten stopped walking and the anger in his dark brown eyes set the police captain on edge. "I'm not leaving here until one of us sees him."

"Dr. Asten, all due respect, but this is the F.B.I. you're talking about. They're not going to hurt Quincy, any more than they're going to let us make demands. We're local authority: the feds could care less about what we want."

"I'm not leaving," the director said stubbornly.

"Dr. Asten, let me explain something to you: the only reason you're out here, walking around free, is because Quincy agreed to go along with their suicidal scheme to bring down the New York mafioso boss Anthony Vandano."

"What are you talking about?"

Donovan started Asten moving again. "They had you locked up on an eight to ten for tampering with federal evidence." He watched as all the color drained from the director's face. "Quincy made the only play he could to get you out of there in one piece."

"What are they going to do to him?"

"They're not going to do anything to him, except put him in harm's way by having him pose as his brother Michael."

"What?"

"They're going to allow the mob to believe that Quincy is Michael and hope he can lure Vandano into another attempt to kill him. I guess the feds figure an attempted murder charge is almost as good as tax evasion..."

"That's the most assinine thing I've ever heard. Quincy's not some kind of F.B.I. operative. Captain, he'll get himself killed."

Donovan's voice turned quiet, "I know that doctor. That's why Monahan's back at the precinct locked in a room with our best guys trying to come up with a plan that will at least keep him alive."


	8. Chapter 8

Melissa Asten was sitting at Monahan's desk in his office at the precinct, sipping coffee when her husband walked in with Captain Donovan. She stood quickly, and ran to Asten, throwing her arms around his neck.

"Oh Bob...thank God you're all right."

He pat her gently on the back as Donovan backed out the door, giving them a little privacy.

"I'm fine, honey," Asten said, "I'm sorry I scared you like that."

She held his face between her hands. "As long as you're okay, that's all that matters to me." She kissed him lightly, then looked into his eyes. "Lt. Monahan said you and Quincy were being detained by the F.B.I. Bob, what in the world's going on?"

He broke away from her gently. "You'd better sit down, 'Liss, this is going to take some explaining."

* * *

Monahan glared at the young S.W.A.T. officer. "An entire police force of resources at your fingertips and puttin' a tail on him's the best thing you can come up with?"

The young man looked as though he'd just swallowed a box of nails. "Well sir, I...well--"

"--Shut-up, Ulster. Just...get outta here, I can't stand the sight of you." Monahan looked over at Brill as the young officer quickly skulked from view. "What do you have, Brill?"

"Chances are the feds aren't going to be sharing any info with us, and they certainly aren't going to let us in on their plans, or even let any of us speak with Quincy. Best guess: they'll take him to Vegas and try and nail Vandano there. It's smaller, closer and they can isolate the target better in that venue. Besides, I did a little checking, and Vandano has quite a bit of his personal assets tied up in the strip, so he's there a lot, and not likely to take it well if Quincy, posing as Michael, makes an attempt at some kind of extortion."

Monahan looked sharply at Brill. "You sound pretty sure that the feds'll go that route."

Brill smiled shrewdly. "I got a man inside that can feed us a little."

"Yeah." Monahan smiled, and then glanced at the rest of the cops assembled in the room. "That, gentlemen, is how police work is done." Donovan walked in then, and Monahan stared at him. "We've got an angle, captain, now we just need to formulate a plan."

Donovan nodded, his face grim. "Frank, I, uh, need to see you for a minute..."

Monahan's belly dropped to his knees, but all he said was, "Brill, get started, I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Yes, lieutenant," came the crisp response.

Monahan followed Donovan out into the main squad room and then into the captain's office. Donovan closed the door, and Monahan felt the sweat begin to roll down his back.

"How'd it go with the feds, Stan?"

"'Bout like we anticipated. Quincy cut a deal to try and save Asten's sorry behind. I honestly don't know how much we can do on this one, Frank."

"What're you sayin', Stan?"

Donovan put a gentle hand on the lieutenant's shoulder. "I'm saying they've got Quincy by the balls, Frank. He's gonna do whatever they tell him, no matter what the cost to himself. They're holding Asten over his head; I can't see him giving in, can you?" Monahan shook his head and Donovan continued, "The feds aren't gonna look kindly on any local agency operating outside its jurisdiction, interfering with their take down of Anthony Vandano."

"Stan, Quincy's a friend of mine, I can't just abandon him, any more than I could you."

Donovan's mouth pulled into a tight line as he walked behind his desk, creating a barrier. "Frank, it's the F.B.I. we're talking about, not some public-funded junior cotillion."

"Are you tellin' me we're not gonna do anything, captain?"

The stiffness in Monahan's tone stuck in Donovan's craw, but on a personal level, he understood it. "I'm telling you to drop it, Lt. Monahan. That's an order."

"You can't be serious."

"I'm afraid I am, lieutenant."

"You realize that Sequana will get Quincy killed in order to get to Vandano?"

"I know that, damnit," Donovan growled. "The F.B.I. considers Quincy to be expendable collateral. What can I do, Frank? If I sanction a move on behalf of this department, we're all gonna lose our jobs, or worse, wind up in a federal pen. Do you get that, Frank?"

"Yeah, I got it. The thing is, Stan, keeping this job, or any job isn't worth Quincy's life to me." Monahan pulled out his badge and his gun, and tossed them onto Donovan's desk. "You know where you can put those, Stan. I'm done."

Donovan watched one of his best cops and closest friends storm out of his office, slamming the door behind him. And Stan Donovan smiled.

* * *

Danny set the plates of food down on the table, and took a seat between Brill and Sam. It was the where they usually gathered to play poker after hours, but now it served as the meeting place to discuss how they were going to help Quincy.

As he so often did, Asten cut right to the chase. "Where do we stand with the department, lieutenant?"

Monahan shook his head. "We can't rely on them for anything...at least not in an official capacity. If we do this thing, we're on our own, and everyone needs to understand that."

Danny frowned. "How can that be with two of LA's finest sitting right here?"

Brill answered, "I'm afraid the lieutenant and I are no longer with the department, Danny."

Sam's eyes opened wide. "What?"

"Don't look so surprised, Sam," Monahan said, "the captain sure wasn't."

"And you think he might help us, unofficially?" Asten asked.

"Well, let's say I think he'll turn a blind eye for as long as he can to whatever we do, and whatever resources we might tap within the department."

"What he doesn't know won't hurt us?" Danny said.

"Something like that," Monahan agreed.

"And exactly what are we going to do?" Sam asked. "We don't even know if Quince is okay."

"He's okay, Sam," Monahan said, "They're gonna take real good care of him, don't you worry. At least until they don't need him anymore..."

That thought sent a shiver through Danny's spine.

* * *

Quincy tossed again, unable to find sleep. The motel bed was adequate enough, but the coroner found he couldn't rest knowing he was surrounded by federal agents. He rubbed his burning stomach, wishing that he at least had a glass of milk nearby; but when he'd asked for some earlier, the fed standing watch over his room had told him to just drink water. Quincy hadn't bothered to try and explain to him why water couldn't substitute for milk.

He turned on his side, pulling his knees up, holding his stomach in pain. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Michael Quincy's neighbors on Sycamore Lane didn't notice as two unmarked government cars pulled up outside his house at 2am. Eight men emptied into the street and quietly entered the house through the front door. After securing the premise, they methodically and painstakingly went through every inch of the property, looking for anything of interest, placing such items in plastic bags which then went into a central container on the kitchen table. By daybreak the house had been searched, printed, completely cleaned and reset, awaiting the arrival of the man who didn't live there, but could occupy the premise without arousing any suspicion.

The agents climbed back into their cars and were gone before the newspaper boy cut across lawns on his bike, tossing copies of the Las Vegas Sun Times on the doorsteps of the quiet suburb that bartenders, dancers and casino workers called home.

* * *

Quincy started awake and pulled away from the tall man shaking his shoulder.

"Sorry doc, didn't meant to startle you."

"Yeah, I'm sure you didn't," Quincy said crankily.

The large agent placed a styrofoam cup on the nightstand. "Here's some coffee."

"Thanks," Quincy muttered as he sat up, rubbing his tired eyes. He picked up the cup and sipped at the hot liquid, knowing full well his stomach was going to object. "Do I have time to take a shower?"

"I'm afraid not, doc. We've got to get on the road."

Quincy took another sip from the cup. "Is someone at least going to explain to me where it is we're going and what it is I'm supposed to do when we get there?"

"Yes. You'll be briefed when the time comes, Dr. Quincy." He headed for the door. "You've got five minutes until we leave."

The man closed the door, but Quincy knew he was standing only a few feet from it. He looked over at the telephone, and he wondered. The medical examiner set his cup down, picked up the receiver and waited: but there was no dial tone.

"Figures," Quincy mumbled as he set the receiver back into its cradle.

There was no way for him to contact Monahan or Asten or anyone back in LA. He was truly on his own, having to trust that the men around him, weren't going to get him killed. A sharp pain rolled through his stomach. He didn't trust them at all.


	9. Chapter 9

"Are you sure there's nothing more we can do on our end?" Asten said into the receiver.

"Yeah," came Monahan's response, "I'm sure. You and Sam sit tight in case Quincy tries to contact you. The three of us're gonna go up there and keep a low profile. Danny's got some friends at the Sands, which is where Vandano always stays, so he's gonna keep tabs there. Brill and I are gonna cover Quincy's brother's house. If Brill's insider is right, that's where they're gonna put Quincy. And Asten, keep a low profile. My guess is that if they haven't already, the F.B.I.'s gonna put tails on both you and Sam."

"What about you three, you don't think they're tailing you?"

"Oh, they were," Monahan said smiling, "but we lost them about an hour ago on the 15."

"Be careful, Monahan, and don't--" But Asten had to swallow the lump in his throat. "Don't let anything happen to Quincy."

"Geez, Asten, if Quincy knew what a mother hen you are about him, he'd take you for everything you've got!"

Sam watched his boss' face turn red as he heard him say, "Oh...blow it out your ear, Monahan!" Asten slammed the phone down on the cradle and glared at Sam. "If he weren't such a good friend of Quincy's..."

Sam smiled slightly. "I think he's said that about you a few times since I've known him..."

Asten's eyebrows arched up, but he chose not to rise to the bait. "Well, he said we need to sit tight, keep our ears open, and be available in case Quincy tries to contact us. He also said that the F.B.I. has most likely put tails on us."

Fujiyama's smile dissipated quickly. "This whole thing gives me the creeps, Dr. Asten."

"Yeah, I know what you mean." Asten looked over the rim of his glasses at the lab assistant. "I just hope Quincy's all right..."

"You're really worried about him, aren't you?"

Asten looked down at his desk, slightly embarrassed. "You'd, uh...better get back to work, Sam. We've got a backlog as it is..."

Recognizing the director's discomfort, Sam started for the door. "Yes sir."

Asten waited until the door had securely closed before collapsing into his desk chair, holding his head in his hands.

* * *

The squad of goons, as Quincy now thought of them, escorted him up the front steps of the white colonial hotel, 25 miles east of Las Vegas. The doctor said nothing, but he had been there many times before, on fishing trips to Lake Mead with his brother. The agents ushered him without a word up the main staircase of the Boulder Dam Hotel, and down a few corridors, stopping in front of room 12. The tall agent, who had been Quincy's shadow since they had left Los Angeles knocked on the door. After a moment it opened, revealing a man the doctor had seen at the Federal Building, but hadn't been introduced to; he held the door wide.

"Come in, Dr. Quincy."

Quincy walked into the room, and stopped in front of the table, his hands folded demurely in front of him. The man who had opened the door stood in front of him and extended his hand.

"I'm Special Agent Rick Sequana, doctor," Quincy shook his hand. "And I apologize for the way all of this has been handled, but we didn't have a lot of options. Please take a seat." The man indicated a chair at the table, and the medical examiner complied. "You look a little peaked, doctor, do you need anything?"

"A glass of milk, if you have it."

If the agent thought it an odd request, he showed no sign of it. "Maxwell," he said to Quincy's tall shadow, "let's get the doctor a glass of milk."

"Yes sir."

The tall goon left the room, and Quincy let out a sigh of air, holding his stomach in pain.

Sequana frowned. "Are you not well, Dr. Quincy?"

Annoyed at the man's easy way, Quincy growled, "What did you bring me here for?"

"You mean other than reminding you of how close you and your brother were at one time?" Quincy glared at the man; the choice of hotel had been calculated. Sequana put his hand on a manilla file folder and slid it over toward Quincy. "That's your brother's file, doctor. I want you to study it, and memorize every detail of it, because tomorrow morning, you're taking over where your brother left off."

Quincy frowned. "That's ridiculous. My brother was a lawyer. I don't have the knowledge to fake my way through that."

"Don't worry about the nitty-gritty, we'll help you with that. What we need you to do is bait Anthony Vandano into doing something stupid, something impetuous, something uncalculated."

"My brother was a mob lawyer, Mr. Sequana, I am neither qualified nor willing to step into his shoes. You'll have to get yourself another boy."

Sequana stood, putting his hands in his pockets, a sickening smile lighting his lips. "I'm afraid we don't have time to find another boy, Dr. Quincy, you're it. Do I need to remind you that Dr. Asten's freedom depends upon your cooperation with us?"

The pain in Quincy's belly intensified and he grimaced slightly. "No," he answered through gritted teeth.

Sequana put a hand on the doctor's shoulder. "Dr. Quincy?"

"I'm not my brother, Sequana. How in the hell do you expect me to fool Vandano?"

"You're going to start by familiarizing yourself with your brother's file."

"That can't have very much in it; if it did, you would have taken down Vandano and my brother a long time ago."

"Dr. Quincy, it's taken years to build up any evidence against Vandano at all, and he's the one we want." Quincy glared at him, and he smiled. "Besides, your brother was an undercover agent, doctor." And Sequana knew from the look on Quincy's face that the man had no idea who his brother really was at all. "Read the file. We'll be back in a few hours. I'll tell you then what it is we're planning to do and how you fit into it."

Quincy sat, dumbfounded, as the goon squad left the room, closing the door behind them. He couldn't move; he could barely breathe. Michael, an undercover fed; it seemed impossible. He looked down at the file in his hands: there was one way to find out...

* * *

Tears streamed down Quincy's face as he read the file; he hadn't known how tough his brother's life had been, and he had shut him out, thinking the worst of him. Now Michael was dead, and it was too late to make amends. His brother had amassed a lot of circumstantial evidence on Vandano over the years, but never enough to hang a convinction on. At least, not until recently. According to the report in his hands, Vandano had finally let Michael into the inner circle, and the truly dirty end of his business in Vegas and New York. Michael had been slowly leaking information to the F.B.I. and Sequana had been amassing a stack of evidence in a case that would have put Vandano away. But Vandano found out, and according to the report, it was someone within the F.B.I. who blew the whistle on Michael. Vandano put out a hit, and Michael turned up in Quincy's morgue two days later.

But the F.B.I., and presumably the mob had both searched Michael's house, and neither turned up any of the hardcore evidence that Michael said existed. Quincy remembered the claim stub and key then, and wondered if Sequana's men had any luck on that end. A soft knock issued from his door, and momentarily it opened. Quincy quickly wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Maxwell set a small carton of milk in front of the doctor, and a straw. Without a word, Quincy opened the container, and downed the contents, hoping the smooth liquid would help calm his irritated stomach. Sequana walked in, and sat down opposite of the doctor.

"Well?"

"I had no idea," Quincy said softly, "all these years I thought my brother was working for the mob; I thought he was a terrible person..."

"And now you know the truth."

"Yes. But it's a little late."

"You can still honor his memory, doctor, by helping us complete his work."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Several things, doctor, one of which will be to set up Vandano to take a fall."

"How?"

"He put a hit out on your brother. Once you turn up, and everyone thinks you're him..."

"He'll try it again."

"The key is to get Vandano to come after you himself, and let us catch him in the act."

"In the act? Doesn't that mean that he has to kill me?"

"No, he just has to make the attempt; we'll close in before he actually has a chance to kill you, doctor."

"Why is it I don't find that to be comforting?" Quincy licked his lips nervously, then said, "Where do we start?"

Sequana set a small lockbox on the table, followed by the key Quincy had seen attached to the claim stub. "The Golden Tree is a pawn shop in Las Vegas. We thought maybe Michael had put the files and pictures he collected in here, but that's not what we found when we opened it."

"May I?"

"That's why it's here, doctor."

Quincy picked up the key, unlocked the box and peered inside: it was filled with fishing hooks, spinners and dry flies. The medical examiner looked sharply up at Sequana.

"Anything at the bottom?"

"Yeah, there was." He pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Quincy, who stared at his own first name written on it in his brother's hand. "We opened it, doctor, and I apologize for that, but under the circumstances, we had to."

Quincy said nothing as he pulled out a piece of paper from the envelope. He unfolded it, and instead of a letter from his brother, there was simply one word written on it: kantana. The doctor looked up at the agent.

"We've researched the term, and it's a variation on a Japanese sword...but that doesn't make any sense to us; does it to you?"

"Yes," Quincy answered, "yes it does."

Sequana looked at him impatiently. "Well? What in the hell does it mean?'

"I'll tell you, Sequana, but first, there are some things I want from you."

Knowing the doctor had him locked down, Sequana sighed. "I'm listening, doctor."

"First, the charge against Dr. Asten--"

"--I told you we dropped that, the moment you agreed to come with us."

"I know that. I want any trace of it removed from his record. That man has never done anything illegal; he's never even gotten so much as a parking ticket, and I'll be damned if I'm the reason he has a black mark on his permenant record with the county."

"Done."

"That's not all of it," Quincy said, a slight sneer on his face. "I want my friends protected until this is over. I want agents on them and their families."

Knowing that his men had already lost Monahan, Brill and the restaurant owner, Sequana felt the sweat begin to bead on his forehead. "Dr. Quincy, do you have any idea how much resources like that will cost the federal government?"

"Frankly, Mr. Sequana, I don't care. You're getting what you want, and it's probably gonna cost me my life, I'd say it's the least you can do."

"Now Dr. Quincy, you're being a little harsh--"

"--Look, Sequana, we both know that the chances of my coming out of this still breathing are pretty minimal. There isn't much you can do to protect me without tipping off Vandano, and we both know it."

"Dr. Quincy, we will do everything in our power to keep you alive."

"I'm sure that you will; the point is that there isn't much you can do." Sequana looked away, so Quincy continued, "The last thing I want is pretty simple. I'd like to spare my friends from the outcome of this as much as possible."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Just make up something that will be easier for them to take. I'm sure you can't tell them the truth anyway, but if you could somehow make it easier for them, that's all I'm asking. Tell them you put me into witness protection or something, anything..." He stared into Sequana's dark eyes. "I don't want them finding my body in their morgue on Monday morning with a bullet in my head, or worse, reading about it in the newspaper."

"I understand, doctor, and you have my word that I'll take care of it." He paused then said, "Now, what does kantana mean?"

"It's the name of an outboarder attached to a friend's boat."

"Where is the boat?"

"Here, at Lake Mead."

"What's the registered name?

"The Jayhawker."

Sequana turned to Maxwell. "I want it stripped from bow to stern. Get going." He looked at Quincy and frowned. "You really don't look well, doctor."

"My estranged brother, whom I cut out of my life, was killed by the mob because he was a deep cover F.B.I. agent; my friends are probably in a state of panic because they don't know what's happened to me; and I'm going to get my head blown off by some mafioso while I try and set him up for a take down. How am I supposed to look, Special Agent Sequana?"

Sequana grimaced slightly; it sounded so much worse when Quincy put voice to it.


	10. Chapter 10

Quincy drove up to the house on Sycamore Lane and parked his brother's car in the driveway. He stepped out and nervously fumbled with the keys, separating the house key on the ring between his thumb and forefinger. He walked up the stone path and stood in front of the door. He shivered slightly, knowing Michael had stood there many times before him. He inserted the key in the lock, opened the door and walked in, closing it behind him. He glanced around the space, not surprised in the least at the nautical theme of the dwelling, despite the fact that such a motif was slightly out of place in the desert.

He walked further into the house, placing his keys on the table in the entryway, and headed toward the kitchen. Sequana told him the fridge had been stocked, and for the first time in three days, Quincy felt slightly hungry. He snapped the light on and the cheerful yellow walls and bright Mediterranean blue tile leapt out at him: he could easily envision Michael sitting at the table, coffee in hand. Then he saw the thick manilla file folder sitting there, and it sent a wave of nausea through him: Sequana's team left it so that Quincy could familiarize himself with basic law and Michael's specific cases. He ran a finger across the top of it and realized he was no longer hungry. Quincy opened the fridge, poured himself a glass of milk, picked up the file and walked into the living room.

Settling on the couch, he switched a table lamp on and opened the folder. After reading the first nine briefs, Quincy closed his eyes, pinching the spot where the corners met the bridge of his nose; he was tired. Leaning his head back against the pillows of the leather divan, he surveyed the room, and the austerity of it struck him: there was nothing personal in it. Quincy couldn't help but wonder if his brother had purposefully abandoned anything from his life in order to protect those who had been in it. The thought of that possibility made his heart ache with sorrow for the loneliness that must have been his brother's existence.

Vulnerability suddenly stinging Quincy's eyes, he impulsively reached for the phone, until he remembered that Sequana had warned him that the house and phone were tapped not only by the FBI, but also the mob. Quincy sighed heavily as he gently returned the receiver to its cradle. He missed his friends and coworkers terribly, but there could be no sympathetic voices on the other end of a phone call allaying his fears. He once again let his head fall back against the pillows on the couch, and as his eyes closed in exhaustion, he wondered if Lt. Monahan was trying to find him, or if the FBI had warned off the local police...

* * *

"You're sure this guy is discreet?" Monahan asked.

"Yeah." Danny said as he indicated the lounge in the Sands where they were currently seated. "Consider where we are, lieutenant, this guy has heard and seen it all." One of Monahan's eyebrows arched up in disbelief. "Look, Monahan, he's my cousin and he owes me, we can trust him."

Monahan looked over at Brill. "You switched out the car?"

"Yeah, and the new one's clean. I paid cash under an assumed name at a small rental joint to prevent any trace."

"Nothin' like the cops puttin' one over on the feds," Danny commented.

Monahan ignored him. "Good, Brill. What'd you do with mine?"

Brill cleared his throat nervously. "Well, lieutenant, I'm afraid I had to make sure nobody would find it..."

"Yeah...and?"

"And I pretended I stole it and sold it to a chop shop. That's where I got the cash to pay for the rental."

"You sold my car?"

Brill shrugged. "Better'n dumping it in the lake, at least we got something out of the deal, and we know once they're done with it there won't be any trace of it."

Monahan shook his head. "I suppose..."

A tall man of Danny's general build and coloring walked up to the table, and Tovo stood, hugging the slightly younger man. "Anselmo! Come va?"

"Bene...è tu?"

"È stato migliore...Anselmo, meet my friends, Brill and Monahan."

"Pleased to meet you," the man said extending his hand in turn to each man. "Daniele has told me you three might need a little assistance during your stay in Las Vegas."

Monahan smiled cautiously. "That's right. A mutual friend is in trouble, and we wanna make sure he stays in one piece."

Danny pulled Anselmo down into the booth with them. "This friend of ours is a target of one of your New York patrons."

Anselmo's eyes opened wide. "Daniele...ma, non...dovremmo rimanerer chiari di questo..."

Danny smiled easily. "You owe me, Anselmo, and I owe the guy in question, so we're not staying clear of this."

"Do you know what you're asking?"

"We've got a pretty good idea, Anselmo," Monahan said, "Look, we don't need much from you. Just information. We'll do the rest."

"What kind of information?"

"Comings and goings," Brill answered simply.

Danny pat his cousin's arm. "Come on Anselmo, I'll be here with you and I'll do the hard part. You just keep me informed, that's all you have to do."

"And how do I explain you, cousin?"

"Tell 'em I'm here from Sicily learning restaurant management from you. Basta così."

"And if this patron finds out that I'm talking to cops, I'm dead..."

"We're not cops," Monahan said, "at least not anymore."

"Same thing, were, aren't now," Anselmo countered.

"Danny," Monahan growled, "I thought you said we could trust this guy."

Danny smiled dangerously at his cousin. "We can, Monahan. Isn't that right, Anselmo?"

Remembering well that Danny had always easily beaten him up when they were kids, Anselmo nodded. "Si, it's as he says..."

"All right. Brill, you're here with Danny, I'm on shadow. If anything develops, I'm on a walkie."

"Got it."

Monahan stood and leaned his hands on the table, coming inches from Anselmo's face. "Don't do nuthin' stupid, Anselmo; if anything happens to my friend because of you, you won't have to worry about Vandano because I'll kill you myself. Capice?"

"Daniele!" Anselmo exclaimed.

"He's kidding, Anselmo, he's kidding..." Monahan stalked away and Danny pat his cousin's arm. "He's an ex-cop, he wouldn't do it. Really."

But Anselmo had seen the look in the Irishman's eyes, and he knew Monahan wasn't exaggerating.

* * *

Monahan watched quietly as Quincy walked out of his brother's house, dressed in a three piece suit and tie. He stepped into Michael's car and drove off. The lieutenant followed him at a discreet distance to an office building in downtown Las Vegas. Quincy pulled into a parking structure and several minutes later, Monahan followed. After a little searching, the lieutenant discovered Quincy's car on the fourth level, and he parked in the opposite row, down a ways. Monahan waited for about twenty minutes, then headed toward the elevator so that he could place himself in a good position for surveillance of Quincy's office.

Quincy walked in through the glass doors of the outer office of the law firm as if he owned it: but his insides were quivering frantically. He recalled the picture of the pretty secretary from the file, and he smiled at her.

"Good morning, Mona."

"Good morning, Mr. Quincy..."

He stopped at her desk, observing her body language. "You seem...surprised to see me..."

"Well sir, you didn't leave a number last weekend, and well, you were gone for several days with no word..."

"Oh, that," Quincy smiled easily, recalling the story he'd been told to use. "Well, I slipped down to LA with a friend for a little...R&R." He winked at her. "You, uh, understand, don't you, Mona?"

"Oh, I understand, Mr. Quincy...I'm just not so sure about Mr. Phillips. He's been a little upset over your disappearing act."

"Now that I'm back, there's nothing to be upset about, is there..."

He smiled at her, and walked through the large wooden door on the right that was labeled: Michael H. Quincy, Attorney at Law. He entered the office, closing the door behind him, acutely aware of the sweat running down his back. A sharp pain stabbed him in the abdomen, and he groaned, reaching for his stomach. One thing was certain: if Vandano didn't kill him, his ulcer was going to...


	11. Chapter 11

Monahan was tired of standing. He'd been leaning against the marble wall of the corridor, several doors down from the glass ones announcing the Phillips, Quincy and Conlon law practice for the better part of the day. He glanced at his watch: it was after six. Quincy should be coming out soon, or at least Monahan hoped he would. He shuffled his weight once again to the other foot, and watched from the shadows of the alcove as first a small, wiry man exited from the glass doors, carrying a leather satchel, then a moment later, a very pretty redhead walked out, carrying her large tote bag. She was followed almost immediately by a tall, dark man in a heather gray suit. Monahan waited, and finally Quincy emerged through the glass doors, turning to lock them with a key from his pocket. The former lieutenant silently observed the slump of the man's shoulders and the pallor of his skin, and worry filled him. He watched Quincy walk slowly down to the elevator, and quietly Monahan slipped into the stairwell, quickly ploughing down five flights, making it to the parking garage before the elevator doors opened. The coroner walked to the garage elevators, and the Irishman took the garage stairs two at a time up four flights, barely making it past Quincy's car and to his own before the medical examiner emerged.

Monahan panted heavily, gripping the steering wheel of his car, as Quincy inserted the key into the driver's side door of his. The coroner practically fell into the driver's seat from exhaustion, letting his head rest against the car seat. Monahan swallowed hard; he wanted to walk over to the car and make sure Quincy was all right, and let him know that he wasn't alone, but the cop in him knew better than to do something that emotional; such behavior could blow the whole operation, costing both of them their lives. Monahan sat tight, and after a few minutes, he saw the tail lights on Quincy's car light up. He waited a discreet amount of time and emerged from the parking garage a little behind the doctor, and followed him to a convenience store. He waited until Quincy emerged with a gallon of milk, and then trailed the medical examiner back to Sycamore Lane. Monahan watched for the lights to come on in the house, and then awhile later, he drove back to the convenience store and the pay phone he had seen in the parking lot.

* * *

Asten's voice sounded tired, even to Monahan. "Yes, hello?"

"Asten, it's Monahan."

"Everything okay?"

"As much as it can be. Was I right about the tail?"

"Yes, you were right about it."

"Then we have to assume that this line's not secure, so watch your words, understand?"

"Yes."

"I saw our friend and he doesn't look so good. I'm not too sure what to do about it."

"Describe it."

"Pale, shaky, moving very slowly. He looks exhausted."

"Does it look like he's in pain?"

"Maybe. It wasn't a close-up..."

"Anything else?"

"Well, I thought it was a little odd that he bought a gallon of milk at the store, but no cereal to go with it, nothin' else."

Asten's throat tightened. "It's not odd. It's the easiest way to mask ulcer symptoms if you don't have access to the right meds. Problem is it's just a Band-Aid..."

"You mean it's gonna get worse?"

"Without treatment, yes." Asten forced his timbre to remain even. "Any way you can get close?"

"Doubtful."

"Figure something out. I'll call in a prescription to our friends on the strip."

"Don't call from home."

Asten sighed with impatience. "I wasn't planning to..."

Monahan's voice was gruff with exhaustion and worry. "Be careful."

"I will. You just take care of our friend."

"Yeah."

Monahan hung up the phone and sighed. He walked back to his car and headed toward Sycamore Lane; but as he approached, he felt the little hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He drove past it, and turned down the street behind, parking his car near the house that would be the neighbor behind Michael Quincy's. Monahan picked up his walkie-talkie, and pressed the button.

"Team 2? You on?"

After a moment of static and air, Brill's voice pierced the silence. "Go ahead Team 1."

"Sparrow's callin' in some meds for Falcon."

"Serious problem?"

"Not if we nip it early. I need you to coordinate and alert me for pick-up."

"Delivery's not going to be easy."

"No kidding. Just do it. Team 1 out."

The walkie went dark and Monahan set it down on the seat of the car. He waited until the house behind Quincy's had no more lights on, then he turned the volume down on his radio, pocketed it and stepped out of his car, softly closing the door. He walked up the side of the house adjacent to Quincy's, slipped through the backyard and came face-to-face with a ten-foot fence. After a little blind searching, Monahan practically tripped over a bench on the patio. With strength he wasn't even sure he still had, the ex-cop carried it to the fence, stepped up and hoisted himself over the wooden planks. He landed with a thud in the dark on the other side and grunted as a slight pain radiated up from his left ankle. Shaking it off as best he could, Monahan made his way in the blackness along the fence of Quincy's backyard and down the side of the house. Cautiously he peered out onto Sycamore Lane and after a few minutes, spotted the unmarked van parked at the north end. The dish on the top was a dead giveaway to the fact that all sounds in the house were being monitored: he had been right to avoid parking on Sycamore a second time.

Monahan quietly walked back the way he'd come, and stared up at the second floor of the house, at the window with the light on. For a moment he thought he'd like to take the easy way out of it all and just toss a pebble at the glass, and hope that Quincy wouldn't make a sound; but the cop in him knew better. Sighing, Monahan walked to the back door, and pulling a skeleton key from his pocket began to jimmy the lock. After a few minutes, it released and he stepped into the kitchen, softly closing the door behind him. He stood perfectly still for a brief moment while his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he caught the blinking infrared light on the wall; his heart slammed into his throat: the FBI had rigged the house with a silent alarm. But the access code had to be something Quincy could use since he was living in the house. Knowing he had mere seconds before his cover was blown, Monahan moved to the keypad and punched in the only thing he was sure Quincy would be able to remember: Helen. After a second the alarm disengaged and Monahan kept himself from releasing an audible sigh. Wiping the sweat that had beaded on his brow, the former lieutenant moved quietly through the house and up the stairs.

He stood in front of the door that had light pouring through the crack underneath, and he thought for a long moment on how to handle the situation. If he opened the door, he'd startle Quincy, and the FBI would come running; if he waited until Quincy was asleep, he could go through the door, but might elicit quite a scream before subduing him. Monahan shook his head at himself; he should have thought of this problem before entering the house. He opted for the second plan and waited quietly by the banister on the second floor until the light underneath Quincy's door had been out for 30 minutes. As softly as he could, Monahan opened the door and walked into the room, which was illuminated slightly by the moonlight coming in through the window. He moved to the bed and removed the ring from his left hand, sliding it into his pocket; there was no sense in accidentally hurting the man if he resisted. Monahan switched on the lamp by the bed, sat down easily and covered Quincy's mouth with his left hand. The coroner bolted awake, and Monahan clamped down on the back of his head with his right hand. After a brief second, Quincy realized who it was, and he relaxed. Monahan removed his hands and touched an index finger to his lips, indicating the need for silence. He handed Quincy his robe and motioned for him to follow.

Quietly the two men padded through the house and out the back door, making their way to the furthest point of the backyard. Monahan put his hands on Quincy's arms.

"You look like hell," he whispered.

"I'm okay. What are you doing here?"

"Keeping an eye on you, what do you think?"

"Are you crazy? If the FBI doesn't getcha, the mob will. Go home."

"And leave you here with all the fun? No way."

"Are you here alone?"

"No. I'm watchin' you, but Brill and Danny are at the Sands keeping an eye out for Vandano."

"He's arriving in the morning. I have a meeting with him in the afternoon at the office."

"You can't meet with him alone."

"I don't think I have a choice, Monahan."

"Are you tellin' me the FBI's sanctioned it?"

Quincy shrugged. "Guess so."

"Those bastards..."

Quincy pat Monahan's shoulder. "Get in your car and drive back to LA, tonight."

"No," Monahan growled. Quincy grimaced slightly, grabbing his stomach, and Monahan took him by the arms. "Quincy? What is it?"

"Ulcer," the doctor said through clenched teeth.

"Asten was right."

"Asten? Don't tell me he's here."

"No. He and Sam are back in LA keeping the feds busy. They lost Brill, Danny and me on the drive up."

"Monahan, what are you doing? You can't play around with the FBI; Donovan will have your badge."

"You let me worry about that. I've gotta figure out a way to keep you from gettin' your head blown off. Did that little weasel Sequana at least lay out some kind of plan?"

"Yeah. I'm supposed to make Vandano think I've got some evidence on him and if he kills me, it'll be turned over to the FBI by an associate."

"And?"

"And I'm supposed to tell him that I'll trade him the evidence for my freedom and half a million dollars."

"Sequana told you to blackmail Anthony Vandano?"

"Yeah."

"I've gotta get you out of here. Right now. Tonight."

Monahan began to pull Quincy toward the fence, but the coroner stopped him. "I can't do that."

"Whaddya mean? Quincy, did you miss it? The feds are gonna get you killed, and then they're gonna arrest Vandano on a murder one charge."

"I get it."

"I don't think you do. Quincy, you have to be dead in this scenario for them to get their man."

"Monahan, I can't explain it to you, but I have to do this. And you shouldn't be here..."

Quincy started toward the house and Monahan grabbed his sleeve. "Damnit Quincy, I'm not gonna stand by and watch this go down," he hissed.

The coroner put his hands on Monahan's shoulders. "Frank, listen to me." Monahan stared into the gray eyes, startled at Quincy's use of his first name. The medical examiner gently squeezed the bulky flesh under his hands. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I can't let you do it. There's a lot more in play here than you know." The blue-gray eyes searched the light blue ones for understanding. "Please, take Danny and Brill, and go home. I couldn't bear seeing any of you hurt because of me. Let this go, Frank. Let me go."

"Quincy--"

"--Trust me. Please."

Monahan could feel his eyes stinging with moisture. "Damn you," he whispered as he broke away from Quincy's grip. "I'll find a way to get the prescription Asten called into the pharmacy on the strip on your desk before tomorrow morning."

"Go home."

"I ain't doin' that, Quincy. I don't understand why you're goin' along with Sequana on this, but I'm gonna assume it's for a good reason. But that doesn't mean I'm gonna leave you here alone. I'll be close-by, and if I can find a way to save your sorry butt, then that's what I'm gonna do whether you like it or not."

"My sorry butt? You should be worried about your own puffy ass..."

"My ass ain't puffy..."

"Monahan?"

"What?"

"Don't knock the fence down while dragging that puffy ass back over it..."

Monahan glared at the coroner. "Oh shut-up."

Quincy walked back into the house, quietly closing the door behind him, and after a moment, Monahan hoisted himself back up over the wall, sliding down onto the bench below. He returned the wooden seat to its place on the patio and softly padded back to his car. After climbing inside, he started the engine and headed toward the Sands. Exhaustion was catching up with him, and Frank Monahan sighed. It had been a long night, and it was far from over.


	12. Chapter 12

Dressed in solid black clothing, Monahan jimmied the lock on the rear delivery door of Quincy's office building. Knowing the interior was on camera surveillance, the ex-cop went up the inside stairwell to the fifth floor. As was the case in most buildings, the fire door was locked from the stair side. Monahan picked the mechanism and slipped through the door, hugging the wall to avoid the scope of the sweeping camera. Once in the alcove where he had spent his day hovering, Monahan watched the camera sweep, waiting for the right moment that would afford him the most time. He moved quickly, picking the lock on the glass door, and then Quincy's office. He moved into the room and set the bottle of pills on the stack of file folders. Curiosity overtaking him, Monahan took a quick look at the files, finding nothing of interest until he looked in the top drawer of Quincy's desk, and there he found a legal brief regarding Anthony Vandano.

After glossing through the information, Monahan returned it and headed for the door. He set the locks to click behind him, and he retraced his steps, waiting patiently behind the glass doors until the camera swept away. He set the lock and breezed through, heading toward the alcove to wait out the next sweep. And then his heart froze as he heard the footsteps on the marble floor: a nightwatchman. Monahan hadn't counted on rounds. Sweat beaded across his forehead as he waited, and the click of the guard's shoes continued to approach. He pressed himself hard against the alcove wall, hoping the man wouldn't sense him standing there in the dark. And it almost worked.

The guard was two steps past Monahan's position when he stopped and turned. Monahan could feel his heart pounding against his chest, and the sweat beading across his brow. The guard stepped back, inching toward the alcove, and Monahan leapt out at him, tackling him on the floor, pressing the man's head away to keep him from seeing Monahan's face.

"I don't wanna hurt you, old timer, so just stop fightin' me..."

But the guard kept at it, and Monahan had to sit on him. One of the guard's hands slipped free in the struggle, and he hit Monahan as hard as could with a flashlight across the head. Monahan's arm reared back and he slugged the guard twice, and the old guy passed out, then he dragged him to the alcove, where he sat him up against the wall.

"You'll be all right, old timer, which is more than I can say for me..."

Monahan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to the gash on his head. Feeling slightly woozy from the blow, Monahan leaned against the wall and moved as quickly as he could into the stairwell. Holding onto the railing, he made it to the bottom and proceeded out the back door and to his car, unaware of the trail of blood he was leaving behind.

* * *

Monahan tried to remain nonchalant as he made his way through the lobby of the Sands, but he felt dizzy, and the blood had soaked through his handkerchief. He stepped onto the elevator and made it to the 12th floor, and down the corridor to Brill's room. He pounded on the door.

"Brill...Brill!"

After a moment, the ex-sergeant opened the door, barely catching Monahan as he fell forward.

"Lieutenant! What the hell happened?" He pulled Monahan into the room and helped him to the bed. "Lie down, I'll get a cloth for that..."

Brill ran cold water over a washcloth and brought it to Monahan, whose eyes had glossed over slightly. Brill gently pressed the cloth to the wound, causing the Irishman to grimace.

"This looks bad, lieutenant..."

"Nightwatchman clipped me with a flashlight."

"You put the pills on Quincy's desk?"

"Yeah. There's no trace of anyone having been in there."

"But from the looks of this wound I'm betting that your blood's at the scene."

"Probably...but this happened out in the corridor, no one will know what I was doing in the building."

Brill removed the cloth and inspected the wound. "You need stitches."

"I can't exactly go to a doctor, Brill, that'd create a paper trail we can't afford."

"Quincy could do it."

"Too risky. I'll be all right. Just put a bandage on it and gimme some aspirin."

"If you say so."

"I say so." Monahan saw the concern lining Brill's face. "Don't worry. Look, you're gonna have to keep an eye on Quincy until morning."

"After a blow like that on the head, you shouldn't be alone," Brill said as he applied disinfectant and a bandage to the lieutenant's brow.

"Then get Danny up here if it'll make you feel better, but I want you to make sure Quincy gets to his office in one piece in the morning. Vandano arrive at the hotel yet?"

"Yeah, awhile ago. Anselmo told Danny there's a meet between him and his lawyer tomorrow."

"Yeah. The only thing we got going for us is that it's on Quincy's turf, so we might have a shot at keepin' him alive. The really bad news is that Quincy is supposed to meet him alone."

Brill's lips tightened into a line. "I got a bad feelin' about all this, lieutenant. A real bad feeling."

Monahan nodded slightly. "Yeah, me too. Now get going, I don't want Quincy left without protection. And Brill, don't park on Sycamore, keep an eye from the property behind Quincy's brother's house; the feds have Sycamore locked up."

Brill nodded. "I'll send Danny up here, and if you need anything, let me know."

"Go."

Brill walked out of the room, gingerly closing the door behind him. But even that was too loud for Monahan's pounding head.

* * *

Quincy stepped out of the front door, feeling exhausted from lack of sleep. He locked the door and then realized that the potted palm which normally sat on the right side of the stoop was now on the left, and he swallowed hard. He glanced up and down the street, but didn't see anything unusual; yet he recognized the signal for an immediate meet and quickly moved to his car, got in and drove off. Brill was waiting near the intersection behind Sycamore that he knew Quincy would have to pass to leave his neighborhood and head downtown. He saw the blue sedan drive by, waited a few moments, then pulled out, following the medical examiner. Instead of heading straight downtown, as Brill had expected, Quincy turned in the opposite direction on the highway. Brill continued to follow until the coroner pulled into a dingy motel on the side of the road. The ex-cop watched as Quincy locked his car and headed toward one of the corner rooms on the lower floor. After Quincy knocked, the door opened, and he stepped inside. Brill frowned, wondering what was going on. He picked up the walkie talkie and pressed the button.

"Team 2 to Team 1."

"Team 1, go ahead," came Monahan's tired voice.

"Falcon took an unexpected stop on the way in."

"What's your best guess?"

"Feds."

"That could mean something's gone wrong. Stay on shadow, and keep me posted."

"Acknowledged, Team 1. Team 2, out."

Brill set the walkie next to him and let out a long sigh. All he could do was wait.

* * *

One of Sequana's men pulled Quincy's jacket off and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Hey...what gives?"

"Relax, doctor," Sequana said, "we just need to hook you up for sound."

"You want me to wear a wire? What if Vandano figures it out?"

Sequana stared at him. "Relax. He thinks you're Michael, remember?"

"He had my brother killed, remember?"

"But he doesn't know that Michael was an agent any more than he's going to know you're not Michael."

"How can you be sure?"

"Dr. Quincy, you're going to have to trust me."

"Great."

Sequana's agent pulled up Quincy's undershirt and began attaching the equipment to his stomach and chest. He frowned slightly as he applied the tape.

"What's the matter, Louie?" Sequana asked.

"He's a little clammy, the tape doesn't wanna stick."

Sequana laid a hand on Quincy's skin and frowned. "You're kinda warm, doctor, everything okay?"

Quincy shrugged. "Doesn't matter one way or another, does it?"

Sequana sighed and stepped a little ways away, sliding his hands into his pockets. "You do have a way of putting things into perspective, don't you..."

"It's the least I can do." He watched Sequana pace and then said, "Other than the wire, why I am here? Change in plan?"

"Well, I'm afraid the search of the Kantana didn't turn up any documents, as we thought it would."

Quincy frowned. "Michael wouldn't leave that as a clue, Sequana, unless there was something there."

"Oh there was something there, all right, it just wasn't a document." Quincy stared at him and he said, "Your brother left us a decomposed body."

"What?"

"We found a skeleton embedded in the hull."

"A body..." Quincy looked into Sequana's eyes. "What if it contains evidence of a homicide?"

"Oh, ya think?"

"I mean what if the body points directly to the murderer, and what if that's Vandano?"

"You're saying your brother left us a skeleton that can convict Vandano? That's ridiculous, doctor. It's just a bunch of bones. And we don't know who the bones belong to, and the victim sure as hell can't tell us how he was killed or by whom."

"That's where you're wrong, Sequana. Michael addressed that envelope to me because he knew I might be able to put the pieces together. I need to do a post-mortem."

"An autopsy? On what? A bunch of old bones?"

"Yeah."

"No way, Quincy. You're heading into a meeting with Vandano, and you're gonna try and convince him that you have evidence against him."

"Only now we've got nothing to back up the threat; what am I supposed to bluff him with, air? Give me a chance to let the victim tell me who killed him."

"I'm sorry, doctor, but it's taken us too long to set this up. We've got Vandano right where we want him - off his own turf - all you have to do is to provoke him into making a mistake. We'll take care of everything else."

"Yeah, including my dead body."

"Dr. Quincy...you can't get cold feet now."

"I'm not," Quincy growled, "I'd just prefer letting a guy who's already dead point the finger..."

"Relax. Our men are getting into place now at your building. No one's gonna know anything, and we can move in before Vandano can hurt you..."

The motel phone rang and one of Sequana's men answered it. "It's for you, sir," he said, handing the phone to Sequana.

"Sequana here...what? How can that be? Oh Jesus...when Vandano finds out...hell." He paused for a moment thinking, then said, "No, we just have to go along and try and make it happen. Yeah, I'm sure. Set it up."

Sequana handed the receiver back to his man and he faced Quincy.

"Why is it I have the feeling there's a further complication?"

"The office building had a break-in last night."

"What?"

"Yeah, nightwatchman was knocked out on the fifth floor, so chances are it was one of Vandano's men playing around in your office." Quincy's eyes flashed another possibility and Sequana frowned. "Doctor? Do you know something about this?"

"No, no I don't. You know damned well I was at Michael's house all night... Was the guard hurt badly?"

"No, but he clipped the burglar pretty good with a flashlight. Local cops got blood samples from the scene."

Quincy tried to keep the alarm from his voice. "Blood samples?"

"Yeah, whomever it was lost quite a bit, although he did manage to get away."

"I see..."

"Look, Quincy, you've got to hang tough. When Vandano hears about this, he might flip out. It'll be up to you to keep the meeting on."

"Wonderful..."

"You'd better get going."

"Yeah." Quincy buttoned up his shirt and put his jacket back on. "You haven't forgotten our deal, right?"

Sensing the medical examiner's fear, Sequana pat him gently on the shoulder. "No, I haven't, but I'm telling you, we've got men everywhere, Quincy, the likelihood of Vandano actually killing you before we stop him isn't very large."

"I'm sure they told that to General Custer too..."

Sequana watched Quincy walk out the door, softly closing it behind him.

"He's not a bad guy, Rick," Louie said, "I feel kinda rotten settin' him up this way."

"Look, if we can save the guy and still get Vandano on a solid charge, we'll do it; but the bottom line is that we've gotta get this guy, and we've gotta put him away for good. One coroner isn't worth the lives of all the innocents Anthony Vandano and his associates will kill in the coming years if we don't get him now."

Louie shrugged. "I guess, if you believe in letting numbers dictate this kinda thing."

"Numbers are the only things that matter to the boys on top, Louie. Don't ever forget that."

"Yeah, I suppose."

"Come on, we've gotta get a move on."

* * *

Quincy drove his car toward the office building downtown, and he could feel the fear shaking his insides. It was fear of what he was walking into, and also fear over what might have happened to Monahan. And even though he knew that his brother had been working for the side of right, Quincy seethed with anger that Michael had managed to dump the entire thing on his twin's lap. It was as if they were seven years old again, and Michael, always the slightly larger, stronger, smarter and dominant of the two, was still browbeating his younger brother into doing something he didn't want to do. Quincy shook his head: Michael was only older by a couple of minutes, but he always pulled the "I'm older than you and you'll do what I say" card.

Michael was dead, but even beyond the grave, he was still using it.

His hands shaking slightly, Quincy slid the key card into the garage parking lot monthly slot and looked for an empty spot. He found one on the second floor, and pulled into it, wishing like hell that Monahan was going to pop out from behind a car with some kind of idea to get him out of this mess. But there was going to be no rescue. All he could do was hope and pray that Sequana was a man of his word; then at least his friends would be spared the truth of his demise, and freed of any involvement. It wasn't much, but it was all Quincy had to hold onto for comfort.


	13. Chapter 13

Quincy walked down the corridor and felt a shiver run down his back; he wasn't sure if it was fear or a symptom of the fever he was running. Either way, the coroner figured he needed to try and shrug it off. He walked through the double glass doors and smiled at the secretary.

"Morning, Mona."

"Hi Mr. Quincy," she said without her usual sparkle.

He frowned. "Everything okay? You sound a little...disturbed."

"You missed all the excitement."

"I did?"

"Yeah. The police were here checking things over. There was a break-in last night, and the burglar attacked a guard on this floor, right outside our office. There was blood on the floor and in the stairwell, and...oh Mr. Quincy, it was awful!"

He walked over to her and put his arm around her. "Take it easy, Mona, whatever it was, it's all over now. Did the police discover anything?"

"Like what?"

She was pretty, but not overly bright. Quincy smiled at her. "I don't know...like what the burglar stole and from where...?"

"Oh, nobody's found anything missing."

"That's odd, don't you think?"

She shrugged. "Hadn't thought about it really, but one of the cops said something like that too."

He brushed a gentle hand through her hair. "Well don't you worry, I'm sure everything is fine now."

He headed toward his office, and grimaced as a sharp pain stabbed at him. He moved through the large wooden door, closing it behind him, and walked over to his desk, almost collapsing in the chair. His right hand pressed inward on his abdomen trying to subdue the ache, and he let out a slow breath; and then he noticed the bottle of pills on his desk. He picked it up and read the label: Michael Quincy, cimetidine. His lips curled into a small smile when he read the doctor's name: Dr. Robert Asten. But all too quickly he remembered how the pills came to be on his desk, and he wondered if Monahan was all right. He opened the bottle and tossed a pill into his mouth, swallowing it down dry. If he knew Asten, it was a combination prescription and would not only control the pain but also start to heal the lesion in the lining of his stomach. He put the pills in his pocket just as his door opened.

"Good morning, Michael," Stu Phillips said, "too bad you got here so late this morning, you missed all the excitement."

"So I heard..."

"Have you prepared the Vandano brief?"

"Yeah, it's here in my desk. Why?"

"Just wanted to be sure you were ready. The last thing you want to do is piss off Vandano."

"We just need to take care of some tax issues. There are questions about filings from the past five years, no big deal."

"If it's no big deal, why did you insist he come out here?"

Quincy swallowed hard, realizing the mistake he had almost made. "I just meant I could take care of it. The IRS is nothing to fool with, Stu, remember Al Capone..."

"Uh-huh." Phillips started back out, then nonchalantly turned back, smiling lecherously. "Did you have a date with that bombshell of yours last night? What's her name? Cindy?"

Quincy smiled outwardly, but inwardly he tried to squelch the panic; there had been nothing about a woman named Cindy in Michael's file. It could be that Stu Phillips was baiting him, or it could be that Michael had recently begun to date such a woman and the FBI wasn't up on it. He decided avoidance was his best tactic.

"I didn't go out last night, actually..."

"What? Don't tell me our resident Don Juan's starting to slow down a little? Tell me the truth, Michael...is there another new one or are you just trying to keep Cindy all to yourself? I mean, we are partners after all, shouldn't we share and share alike?"

"I am telling the truth, Stu, I didn't go out last night, really."

"Sure you didn't, Michael, sure," Stu said smiling, "You just tell that broad Cindy that I'm next in line!"

"Stu, I've got work to do..."

"Yeah, yeah, sure..."

Phillips walked out and Quincy leaned his head back against the chair, his stomach burning in pain.

* * *

"I'm sure, Mr. Vandano, absolutely sure. If that's Michael Quincy then I'm President Carter," Phillips said into the phone, "He slipped about the importance of the tax evasion brief, so then I questioned him about his girlfriends. Michael never dated a girl named Cindy, and this guy didn't correct me, and I gave him several openings."

"What about this break-in last night?"

"Cops said nothing was taken."

Vandano was quiet for a moment, then said, "All right, Phillips. Thanks for the tip. I won't forget it."

"Thank you, Mr. Vandano."

Vandano hung up the phone and looked over at his right-hand man. "It seems the feds have plugged in another boy. Find out who he is, now. And change the meet to over here. If we're gonna pop a guy, let's do it where we won't get caught."

"Yes, Mr. Vandano," the big man said.

Vandano shoved another grape into his mouth as the large man went into the adjoining room. He held his hand out to the brunette woman sitting on the couch a few feet away from him.

"Sheri...get busy," he ordered, opening his robe.

Vandano let out a moan of pleasure when her mouth covered him, and a smile lit his face: the day was beginning pleasantly, and would only get better when he could make the fed's impostor first squirm, then tell him everything he wanted to know, and finally die for his trouble. He had let a hitman take out Michael Quincy, but this guy - he was gonna pop this guy personally.


	14. Chapter 14

Brill had parked his car outside the parking structure and picked up the walkie-talkie, pressing the call button.

"Team 2 to Team 1."

"Team 1. Go."

"Falcon's at the office, I'm parked outside, across the street."

"Our Sicilian friend on the inside says the target's moving the meet here, so we've got the jump on Uncle Sam and have a chance to help Falcon out. Get back here and fast. We've got work to do."

"Acknowledged. Team 2 out."

Brill set the walkie down and turned the ignition key, heading quickly for the Sands.

* * *

Quincy hung up the phone and swallowed hard: Vandano had changed the meeting to his penthouse at the Sands. While he knew the feds had a tap on the phone and knew of the change, he felt sick to his stomach all the same. He pulled the bottle of pills from his pocket and chugged another one, swallowing it down dry, popping the bottle back into his jacket. The doctor could feel his heart beginning to pound hard against his chest and knew he needed to calm down. He looked down at his hands and couldn't keep them from shaking: how he wished Monahan, Brill or Sam was with him, hell, he'd even settle for Asten: that thought brought a twisted smile to his lips for "settling" wasn't entirely true. Underneath the gruff game they engaged in, he liked his superior, but he'd sooner eat a box of tacks than admit it out loud.

He loosened his tie and tried to settle down by slowly reviewing in his mind the procedure Sequana had told him to follow in dealing with Vandano. If only he could speak with the agent now, and get a revised version that allowed for some kind of exit at the Sands. But like all hotel rooms, even the penthouse would have only one door, one exit. Quincy could feel the tape of the wire beginning to lift away from his skin due to perspiration. He felt hot, and his stomach was burning worse than it ever had since his ulcer had been diagnosed. He figured he was probably bleeding internally, but then, given where he was headed, it wasn't going to matter in the long run; it was just going to be uncomfortable.

* * *

Louie handed Sequana a printed report, and the agent quickly scanned the page. "You're sure about this?"

"Yes sir. The camera surveillance tape was pretty rough, and we only got a shot of the assailant from behind, but we ran the DNA sample through the LAPD files like you suggested, and it's a match for Monahan. You were right about him."

"I knew he was here somewhere, I could feel him. Asten and Fujiyama still in LA?"

"Yes sir. Tails are on 'em pretty tight too."

"Good. It's bad enough we've got three loose canons in Vegas, we don't need two more."

"Three?"

"Monahan had Brill and Tovo with him when our boys lost them, so we have to assume the three of them are here, working together."

"What in the hell is Monahan up to?"

"I don't know. Was the office swept this morning?"

"Yeah. Two of our men filtered in as Las Vegas police and looked the place over, but there was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing missing."

"No notes on or in the desk?"

"Nope. Just legal briefs and a prescription bottle, that's it."

"What?"

"Briefs and a bottle..."

"What was the prescription for?"

"I don't know off hand. I can check with our men."

"Do it. I wanna know what it's for and who prescribed it."

"Right away, sir."

Sequana sighed; the air in the van was getting thick, but he couldn't risk being seen outside, just in case Vandano had the office building under surveillance. He looked at his watch: by now all of his men were out of the building, and on their way to the Sands to set up there. But the Sands was going to be a hell of a lot tougher venue to play to their advantage...

* * *

Brill didn't like Monahan's color, but he kept it to himself as he changed the bandage. Monahan winced.

"Sorry, lieutenant."

"It's all right, Brill."

"That still looks pretty bad," Danny commented.

"Yeah, well, it's the way it is," Monahan said. "We've got work to do, and Quincy's survival depends upon us gettin' it right." His light blue eyes pierced Danny's dark gaze. "Your cousin Anselmo, how much can we depend on him?"

Danny shook his head slightly. "For information, it's fine, but now...well, now we're talking about something much deeper. I don't think we should involve him at this level."

"Do you think he'll at least let us borrow his car?"

"Probably...but we have a car, why do we need his?"

"Because once this thing goes down, we're gonna have to split up. I'll want you and Brill in Anselmo's car, and Quincy and I will be in the rental car. It'll be harder for them to track two cars, especially if they don't know who's on first..."

"What," Danny complained, "is this baseball now?"

Monahan rolled his eyes. "No, I just mean they're not gonna know which of us went into which car, so they'll have to follow both. And with me and Brill doing the driving, it ain't gonna be easy for 'em."

Somehow Danny didn't think he liked the sound of it, but he kept his mouth shut.

"I saw a brief in Quincy's desk," Monahan said, "it was about Vandano's alleged tax evasion."

"So?" Danny uttered before he realized he'd opened his mouth again.

Monahan glared at him. "So I scanned the basics, and I think I've got our way in..."

"In?" Danny questioned with alarm, "Who said we wanted 'in'? Into what?" Monahan and Brill both glared at Tovo, and the man smiled nervously. "Oh, you mean into their mobster club. Fine, fine, we all want in. I'll have jackets made..."

Monahan squeezed Danny's arm gently. "I know this isn't what you do, Danny, and I know it's makin' you a little nervous; and I know you're worried about Quincy...but if you don't settle down, I swear to God I'm gonna hold you by your ankles over the balcony of this building until you get it out of your system. We can't afford to be nervous or worried: Quincy's life is gonna depend upon our collective ability to stay calm. For that matter, all of our lives are gonna depend on it. You got it?"

"Yeah," Danny said softly, "yeah, I got it."

Monahan pat the arm under his hand. "Good man..."


	15. Chapter 15

Quincy tried his best not to visibly shake as he was escorted up to Vandano's penthouse by two of the biggest, tallest men he'd ever seen. The briefcase handle in his hand was drenched with sweat, and he was squeezing it so hard the knuckles of his right hand had turned white. The three men stepped onto a private elevator at the end of the lobby, and Quincy fought the nausea and dizziness he was feeling as the two tree-sized men crowded him in between them.

"Ah, fellas...I, uh, don't suppose you'd mind too much giving me just a little bit more room here, would you?"

Wordlessly the two men looked at each other, then at Quincy, and they stepped even closer to him, almost squeezing him between their massive bodies.

The coroner swallowed hard. "Uh thanks, guys, thanks a lot..."

Only the hum of the elevator hydraulics kept them company for the rest of the way to the penthouse. At the top, the doors opened and the two gorillas led Quincy to the door opposite the elevator. One of them knocked, and momentarily the door opened. The medical examiner felt faint as he looked up into the face of a man even larger than the two apes escorting him.

"Michael Quincy," he said, "I'm here to see Mr. Vandano."

"Uh-huh. Come on..." The huge man stepped aside, and Quincy walked into the penthouse, followed by his own two personal apes. The largest man pointed toward the couch. "Sit down, Mr. Vandano will be with you in a minute."

"Thank you," Quincy heard himself say, although he hadn't remembered making his mouth form the words.

He sat down on the couch, setting the briefcase on his lap. Not unexpectedly, the two gorillas sat down on either side of him, once again crowding his space. Quincy had to admit that it was an extremely effective method of intimidation: he was scared out of his mind. Following an eternity of minutes squeezed between Vandano's apes, the mob boss walked in from another room. He was also a very large man, although not as large as his bodyguards. Quincy tried to stand, but the two apes astride him kept him pinned to the couch. Vandano smiled, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Well, Michael, how nice to see you."

"Yes, Mr. Vandano, nice to see you too."

"You look quite pale, Michael, is something wrong?"

"No, no, I'm just a little tired." He gave a sidelong look at the two men squishing him and added, "Perhaps a little crowded..."

Vandano laughed. "Mickey, Joe, let him up."

The two apes stood and took up positions on opposite ends of the couch. Quincy stood and extended his hand, which Vandano took, shaking it.

"I brought the documents in question, Mr. Vandano..."

"Good," Vandano wiped his hand on his pants and stared at Quincy. "You're awfully warm, Michael, are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

"I might have picked up a little cold down in LA, nothing more."

"That's right," Vandano said with a large smile, "You went down to LA. How was that trip?"

Hearing the amusement in Vandano's voice, knowing the mobster put the hit out on his brother, lit Quincy with anger, but he tried to keep it from his timbre. "It was fine, thank you, just fine."

"I never thought you were much of a fan of LA, Michael, so I was a little surprised."

"It had been a long time." He stared into the dark eyes of Vandano. "But I remembered why I never liked it...too violent."

The smile never left Vandano's face. "Let's take a look at these documents that you're so concerned about."

Quincy followed the mobster over to a table and they sat down. He noted that the two large apes moved with them, taking up new positions around the table. The coroner pulled the file from the briefcase and set it in front of Anthony Vandano.

"You'll notice, Mr. Vandano, that for the past five years, your CPA has misfiled your taxes, leaving you open to federal prosecution for evasion."

Vandano laughed. "This is what you've been so worried about?"

"This and some other more explicit files."

Vandano stared into the gray eyes then. "What are you trying to say, Michael, just spit it out."

"Files filled with evidence linking you to half a dozen hits, that's what I'm saying."

Vandano smiled once again. "Really...and just where are these files?"

"In a safe place."

"Ah, but of course you have an associate who knows their location and will see to it that they're forwarded to the proper authorities should something happen to you..."

Quincy swallowed hard; the man was taking it all with a grain of salt...

* * *

Two floors below the penthouse, Sequana's men and equipment were in a hotel room.

"Damn," Sequana muttered, "I don't like the sound of Vandano. Not at all."

"I'd have to agree," Louie said, "It almost sounds like he knows what's coming..."

Sequana's eyes lit with worry. "Somebody blew Michael's cover, and maybe that same someone has blown Quincy's..." He looked hard at Louie. "Put all units on standby. At the first sign of trouble, we go in; but no one moves until I give the go ahead."

"Got it."

* * *

Vandano set the file on the table and stood, pulling Quincy up by the arm. "Come, Michael, let's have a drink and a little talk."

Quincy walked with him to the bar, which was near a large and very open balcony door. The coroner's heart was pounding so hard and fast he thought he might just have a heart attack; but instead, Anthony Vandano handed him a drink.

"Scotch has always been your drink of choice."

"Yes," Quincy said absently, "neat."

"So, Michael, you have evidence on me and you want something in exchange for it, is that it?"

Feeling like a lamb heading to slaughter, Quincy fought to keep his voice even, "Yeah, that's about it. I give you all the files, and you let me out of this whole thing, I mean all of it; I leave clean with a half a million."

"Half a million, huh? That's kinda steep, Michael, even for me, don't you think?"

"You can afford it," Quincy said, taking a sip of his scotch, hoping it would calm his nerves.

The apes were closing in, and the medical examiner could feel his heart now pounding in his throat. The knock at the door made him slosh some of his scotch. Vandano nodded to the really huge guy.

"Rocky, get that."

"Yeah, boss."

The door opened, and Quincy couldn't believe what he was seeing: Monahan and Brill, dressed in three piece suits, both of them carrying briefcases and wearing glasses. They flashed badges in Vandano's direction as they entered the room.

"IRS, Mr. Vandano, agents Wexler and Scott," Monahan announced smoothly. He looked over at Quincy, "Sorry if I'm busting up a meeting, but this just can't wait. I'm Wexler by the way," he nodded toward Brill, "And this is Scott."

_"Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Sequana groaned in the quiet of the surveillance room._

_"Guess now we know what they're up to, Rick," Louie said._

_"Here goes two years of prep work, down the toilet without so much as a flush..."_

_"What should we do?"_

_"Nothing we can do, Louie, we've got to let this play out and see where these two local yahoos are heading with this..."_

Vandano frowned at the two men. "Gentlemen, I don't mean to appear rude, but I am in the middle of a meeting here. Would it be possible for you to make an appointment for a later time?"

"Well you see, Mr. Vandano," Monahan said, "this really is quite urgent. You see, we noticed that your tax filings for the past five years were mishandled by your certified accountant, and we at the IRS want to see that it is rectified immediately. After all sir," Monahan said smiling, "we wouldn't want it to come to any kind of court case or anything."

"Mr. Vandano," Rocky said, motioning to his boss, "a moment, sir."

"Excuse me, gentlemen..."

Vandano walked over to Rocky who whispered in his ear. Monahan and Quincy exchanged worried glances, but dared to give away nothing else. Vandano moved back over to them, smiling. He walked toward Quincy, putting his arm around his shoulders.

"You know, Michael, it's really quite fortunate that these gentlemen have joined us today since we're discussing my tax problems, don't you think?" He leaned into Quincy's face. "Oh, but wait, I forgot, you're not Michael. You see, you can't be Michael, because Michael is dead. You'd have to be his twin brother, the coroner from Los Angeles." He smiled over at Brill and Monahan. "And you two idiots are ex-cops who just got yourself into much more than you bargained for."

Vandano violently ripped Quincy's shirt open, and pulled the sound equipment free, demolishing it before it hit the floor.

_"Oh shit!" Sequana yelled. "All units, move in now! Go, go!"_

As the two large apes, Mickey and Joe moved toward Monahan and Brill, the two ex-cops tossed their briefcases at them and pulled their guns. Quincy tried to break away from Vandano, but the man was younger, larger and had a solid grip on him. As the mobster tried to pull his weapon though, Quincy managed to pin his arm to his side with both his hands, but Vandano shoved the coroner away from him, yanking the gun free of its holster. Brill fired first and nailed Joe in the heart, dropping him like a stone. Monahan dove behind the couch, firing at Mickey, who fired back, barely missing the ex-cop. Vandano jumped behind the bar for cover, and Mickey knocked the table over, using it as a barricade. Brill and Quincy joined Monahan behind the couch, and Rocky ducked into the adjoining room, using the door as a shield. Shots flew as the front door was busted down, allowing several FBI agents to pour in, guns firing in a burst at the mobsters.

Monahan had emptied his revolver and ducked behind the couch to reload, leaning against it; and his eyes spotted Quincy. "Oh my God..."

Hearing his friend and colleague's timbre, Brill's heart almost stopped as he turned to see what was wrong. Monahan was holding Quincy in his arms, the coroner's hands covering a bloody wound in his abdomen.

"Brill, we've gotta get him outta here!"

As they dodged bullets, Monahan moved Quincy as best he could toward the front door, Brill standing between them and the firing men, shooting as quickly as his revolver would allow. Once they cleared the door, Monahan and Brill got on either side of Quincy, hustled him into the elevator and pushed the lower lobby button. The elevator plummeted downward, the doors opened, and the men were in the parking garage below the Sands. Danny was waiting with both cars when he saw the men approaching.

Tovo ran to help them. "My God, what happened?"

"Quincy was hit," Monahan said matter-of-factly. "Let's get him into the sedan."

"Lieutenant," Brill said, "he looks bad, maybe we should take him to the hospital."

"No," Quincy said weakly, "please, no."

Monahan sat Quincy gently in the rear seat of the sedan. "Quincy, you're hurt bad, I don't think we've got a choice."

The coroner grabbed his friend's sleeve, hard. "Please, Monahan. They'll just arrest all of us and he'll get away--"

"--Quincy, does dead really sound better to you than arrested?"

"There's still a chance to get him..."

"What are you talking about?"

"Vandano."

"Quincy, that's gone now. Any lawyer worth two cents is gonna rip up any case the feds try to levy. They've got two ex-cops impersonating federal officers, and a coroner pretending to be a lawyer...it's illegal and falsified entry, we're done."

"No. The bones."

"What bones?"

"Sequana's people found a skeleton on the Kantana."

"Quincy, you're not makin' any sense..."

"We can get Vandano on murder, but we've got to buy some time with Sequana..."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Sequana had no interest in the bones, so they were taken to the local morgue." Quincy grimaced in pain, and Monahan steadied him gently. "Brill and Danny can get them..."

"You want us to steal some old bones?" Monahan asked.

"Please, Frank, trust me."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but, where are they?"

"Clark County morgue..."

Monahan shook his head. "Okay. Brill, you and Danny get to the morgue in Clark County, and find the bones that Sequana released to the Clark County Coroner. Bring them with you and we'll meet at the place outside Victorville. Brill, you remember how to get there?"

"Yeah." He paused, lowered his voice and then said, "Lieutenant, is Quincy gonna make it that far?"

"He'll have to. As soon as we're out of the hotspot, I'll call Asten and have him meet us. Quincy's gonna need him. Now get going!"

Monahan gently laid Quincy down in the back seat and he jumped in the front, peeling out of the garage as fast as he could, with Brill and Danny right on his tail in Anselmo's car.


	16. Chapter 16

Monahan turned southeast out of Las Vegas toward Victorville, and Brill turned directly east, heading for Lake Mead. The ex-lieutenant stared into his rearview mirror, but there was no sign of anyone following him; still, his nerves were on edge. The moan from the backseat grabbed his attention.

"Quincy? Are you okay?"

A louder groan of pain issued from the coroner. "Hurts like hell, Monahan," he managed to say through clenched teeth.

"I know it does. You just hang on..."

Monahan swallowed hard and drove quicker toward the next exit. He pulled off the I-15 into a truck stop, parking the car far away from any other cars or people. He turned in his seat to check on Quincy, and the pool of blood dripping down the leather made his stomach drop to his knees.

"Jesus, Quincy, you've lost a lot of blood."

The coroner was terribly pale, sweaty and in a lot of pain. "Yeah." He looked up into Monahan's concerned eyes. "I need Asten."

"I'm callin' him now so that he can get on the road and meet us. I'm also gonna get some water for you. Anything else you need?"

Quincy nodded slightly. "Blanket. I'm going into shock..."

"All right, I'm gonna lock you in here, and I'll be right back. Just hang tight."

"Monahan...hurry."

The ex-cop swallowed hard, and laid a soft hand on Quincy's brow. Then he got out of the car, locked it and headed toward the main area of the truck stop. He spotted a phone and quickly went to it, shoving a dime in the slot. He dialed a number and fed some more coins into the pay phone.

"Dr. Asten's office," the secretary answered after one ring.

"Patsy, it's Monahan. I need Asten. Now." Damn the fact that the FBI was monitoring the lines, there was no time to worry about it.

After a moment, Asten picked up. "Monahan?"

"Secure number in ten minutes."

"But--"

"--Asten," there was a gravity in Monahan's voice that scared the director, "please just do it."

Asten swallowed down a bitter fear. "Okay," was all he said.

Monahan hung up the phone and went into the truck stop. He bought basic groceries, some water, and a couple of travel blankets. He looked at his watch: it was time to call Asten. He walked back out to the pay phone, but a young woman was on it, and from the sound of it, she was having a fight with her boyfriend. Monahan nervously looked at his watch; it had been 12 minutes. He walked over to the girl and politely tapped her on the shoulder, but she shrugged him off. He waited another minute, then set his bags down, and reached past her, pressing the disconnect lever. She screamed at him, but he calmly took the receiver from her, smiling.

"Sorry, honey, IRS business." He glared at her. "Have you filed your return yet this year?"

She took off quickly, and Monahan pulled a small paper from his pocket. He dialed the number on it.

"Monahan?" Asten said.

"Yeah. Bob, I've gotta tell you something and I want you to stay calm."

Monahan never used his first name, and it made Asten's heart quicken, but he kept his voice steady. "Okay."

"Quincy's been shot--"

"--Oh dear God, how bad is it?"

"He took a 9mm in the belly, and he's lost a lot of blood. It's bad."

"Then for God's sake, get him to a hospital, now!"

"Asten, I can't do that; I need you and Sam to bring whatever you need to take care of Quincy, and also the basics to perform an autopsy."

"An autopsy? Monahan, that's a terrible thing to say..."

"No, Asten, not on Quincy. Look, I don't have time to explain this to you, please just trust me and do it."

"What kind of autopsy?"

"Quincy said it was a skeleton."

"Whose skeleton?"

"Oh hell, I don't know!"

"What about the FBI? They're still on our tails."

"Don't worry about that, I've got an idea how to lose them. You and Sam just get what you need and head out on the I-15 to Victorville. Take the Stoddard Wells exit and follow the main street through town. You'll go over an old, white bridge. Keep following the road until you come to a dirt turnoff on your right; it'll be the first place you can turn after the bridge. It's about five miles after it. The road's not marked. Drive up it about two miles, and you'll find a small, white house there, out in the middle of nothing. A blue rental sedan'll be parked next to it, that's where we'll be."

"Are you sure about the FBI?"

"Damnit, Asten, while you're worryin' about the FBI, Quincy's dyin'."

The fear in Monahan's voice shook the director to the core, and he was quiet for a short moment, then he said, "Keep him warm, and try and stop the blood flow as best you can." Asten swallowed hard. "Is he in a lot of pain?"

"Yeah, he's hurtin' pretty bad..."

"Put ice on the wound, it'll help anesthetize the area."

"Okay."

Asten couldn't keep the panic from his timbre, "Monahan...you keep him alive until I get there."

"From your mouth to God's ear, Asten. I'll see you soon."

Monahan hung up the phone, and immediately put more money in and dialed another number.

"Donovan," came the gruff answer.

"Stan..."

"Frank? Are you all right? We've seen some pretty damned scary things come across the APB wire."

"I'm okay, Quincy's not. He needs Asten and fast."

Hearing the unspoken words, Donovan carefully answered, "He's got resources."

"It's gotta stay in the house, Stan."

"Is there a backdoor?"

"Yeah, if it doesn't slam shut on us."

"Don't worry, there's always a little back-up in the cookie jar, Frank."

Monahan closed his eyes in relief. "Thanks Stan."

He hung up the phone, picked up the bags and headed quickly back to the car. He unlocked it, and opened up the back door. He slid onto the seat, gently lifting Quincy's head, resting it in his lap. The coroner moaned in pain. Monahan pulled some water from one of the bags, and poured a little into Quincy's mouth.

"I'm so cold..."

Monahan reached into another bag and pulled out the two travel blankets. He put them over Quincy.

"Better?" Quincy nodded, and Monahan brushed a hand over the man's warm brow. "Hold tight, Quincy, I know you're hurtin' but Asten's gonna be with you before you know it."

Monahan slid out from under him, softly setting Quincy's head on the seat. He took his jacket off and placed it under the man's neck, then closed the door and put the bags on the passenger side of the front seat. He climbed in and started for Victorville, driving as quickly as he dared.


	17. Chapter 17

Fearing the extent of the FBI wire taps at the morgue, Asten pulled Sam into the deep freezer, which, in Quincy's absence, was piling up with bodies.

"I need you to put together a field kit, plus DNA analysis equipment, fragment scopes, tacks and wires."

"Bone analysis?"

"Yes."

Sam looked hard at him. "Dr. Asten, why are we in here?"

"Because I'm pretty sure the FBI doesn't have a tap in here, that's why."

"Where are you going with all this equipment?"

"We, Sam. We're going to meet Monahan and Quincy."

Fujiyama's face lit up. "Good!" But the look on Asten's face said otherwise. "Dr. Asten?"

Asten looked away, then up at Sam. "Quincy's been shot."

"Oh no..."

"And I'm going to have to get the bullet out without hospital equipment, without a sterile field, without anesthesia..."

Sensing that Asten was overwrought, Sam said, "I'll pack everything that we might need, Dr. Asten, don't worry." He stared at the director who hadn't moved. "How are we going to lose the agents?"

"Monahan said he'd take care of it, whatever that means...you get on the equipment, Sam."

"Yes sir."

* * *

Brill and Danny checked into a small motel in Clark County under assumed names, keeping a low profile until the morgue closed for the night. Danny turned on the television and sat down on one of the beds as the evening news began.

"Tonight's top story is the hit that went wrong this afternoon on the Las Vegas strip in the penthouse of the Sands hotel. Resembling the St. Valentine's Day massacre, mob boss Anthony Vandano and several of his associates were involved in a shoot-out with members of the FBI, along with rival turf captain, Daniele Tovo--"

"--What?" Danny exclaimed.

Brill held his hand out. "--Shhh..."

"...the forces battled it out for several minutes, until the FBI, led by Special Agent Rick Sequana, stepped in, ending the bloody shoot-out. During the confusion, Tovo and three other men fled the scene. The FBI asks for the public's help in the capture of these very dangerous fugitives."

Danny's eyes grew wider as pictures of him, Monahan, Brill and Quincy flashed across the screen.

"Daniele "Danny" Tovo, Frank Monahan, Joseph Brill and a man identified as a Los Angeles County Corner, Dr. Quincy, have been placed on the FBI's most wanted. Anyone who may have seen these men, or knows of their whereabouts is encouraged to contact his local police department immediately..."

Brill switched off the television and plopped on the other bed. "Well, this just became a helluva lot more complicated."

* * *

It was right before dusk when Monahan pulled next to the small white house that had belonged to his mother's sister. Nora Brandon had preferred the quiet of the desert, and had moved out to a house in the middle of nowhere, with the nearest neighbor residing seven miles away. Having no children of her own, she left the house to her nephew, Frank, and fortunately for Monahan, he had yet to change the name on the title, so it was doubtful that the FBI would find them quickly. He figured they had a lead time of at least three days. He put the car in park, stepped out and walked over to the front door, pulling a key from his pocket. He unlocked the door, then went back to the car to get Quincy.

"Quincy?"

But the coroner had passed out from pain or blood loss, Monahan didn't know which. He gently scooped the medical examiner up by the shoulders, preparing to lift him out of the car, but Quincy screamed in pain.

"Aw, Quincy, I'm sorry..." He tenderly held his friend for a moment, hoping the pain would pass. "I'm gonna carry you into the house, Quincy, and it's gonna hurt a bit when I lift you." Quincy swallowed hard and nodded. Frank tightened his grip. "Okay, buddy, here we go..."

With all his strength, Monahan hoisted Quincy up, causing the coroner to cry out in distress, but this time the ex-cop pushed through it, quickly carrying the injured man into the house, lying him as gently as he could on the bed. Quincy was holding his abdomen with both hands, whimpering softly, tears pooling in his eyes.

"Lie still, Quincy, I'm going to pack that wound in ice."

Again Quincy nodded wordlessly, and feeling the sting of emotion, Monahan quickly went about his business.

After setting the bags from the car in the kitchen, Monahan went to the bathroom to get a towel. He walked to the freezer in the kitchen, filled the towel with ice and took it to the bedroom. As carefully as he could, he pried Quincy's hands away from the wound, placed the ice-filled towel on his belly, replacing Quincy's hands on top of it. Monahan went back to the kitchen, filled a bowl with cold water, stopped in the bathroom to get a washcloth and proceeded into the bedroom. He put the cloth in the water, set the bowl on the nightstand and softly sat on the edge of the bed. He wrung out the cloth and laid it on Quincy's forehead. The doctor opened his eyes slightly.

"Try and relax," Monahan said softly. "The ice helping at all?"

Quincy nodded slightly, his voice colored with pain, "Yeah, a little."

Monahan could easily see the distress in the soft gray eyes. "Asten's on his way, Quincy, and he made me promise to keep you alive 'till he got here, so don't you even think about makin' a liar of me."

"He just wants a chance to cup open a live patient..." Quincy winced in pain at his own joke, and Monahan set a soft hand on top of the coroner's.

"Don't try to talk anymore, Quince, just lie still. I'll be right here."

In response, Quincy pulled one of his bloodstained hands out from under Monahan's, rubbing the top of the Irishman's. The gratitude on Quincy's face pushed Monahan's emotional control over the edge, and his eyes filled with tears, one sliding down his cheek before he could choke them off. Quincy gently reached up and wiped it away, patting Monahan's face. Frank grabbed his friend's hand, holding it tightly. Quincy met the pressure with a squeeze of his own hand, and closed his eyes in distress, pressing his head into the pillow

"You stay with me, Quincy," Monahan said softly, "you just stay with me, buddy."


	18. Chapter 18

Leaving Sam to take car of the equipment details, Asten left the morgue and headed down the street for the Hungry Tiger. He walked up to the hostess and placed a take out order, then nonchalantly leaned against the wall, waiting. He glanced at his watch and then went up the steps leading to the side door, and ducked into the men's room. After a minute or so, Stan Donovan walked in. The captain checked the room, making sure it was clear.

"I see you found the note," he said.

"Yes. Interesting choice for a meeting, Donovan..."

"We don't have much time, Asten. In 20 minutes, a helicopter's gonna land on top of your building. I want you and Fujiyama to be ready to go, understand?" Asten nodded silently, and Donovan continued, "Do you have the location?"

"Yes, but the directions I have were meant for driving on the highway, not flying..."

"Don't worry about that, the pilot will have to figure out a place to land, and it won't be too close to the target or the FBI will find you. Just be sure you're ready to go, or you'll lose the advantage on the feds. They're not expecting this and it'll take them a little time to get a chopper; by the time they do, you guys will be long gone."

Asten stared hard into Donovan's pale eyes. "Why are you doing this, Donovan? Monahan quit the department, and you're sticking your neck out pretty far."

"No further than you are. Monahan's a good man, Asten."

The director nodded. "So's Quincy."

* * *

Sequana paced the length of the office in the Federal Building, talking on the phone. "He picked up food, then what?"

"Took it back to the morgue," Maxwell answered. "Guess they're working late."

"All right. Stay tight on him, Maxwell."

"Yes sir," the agent answered, hanging up the receiver on his end.

"Rick," Louie said, handing him a paper, "Here's the report on Asten's office tap."

Sequana began to read the report. "Okay, he called home to tell his wife he was working late. It's consistent with the take out order." His eyes continued to scan the paper, then widened. "Oh shit!"

"Rick?"

"Monahan called in to him. Why wasn't I notified immediately?"

"I--"

"--Oh hell, we've got to move in, now!"

As Sequana's units descended upon the Los Angeles County Morgue, the helicopter was lifting off of the roof with Asten, Sam and all their equipment aboard.

"Damnit!" Sequana yelled, "Damnit!"

"Take it easy, Rick. A helicopter can't just fly around LA, land on a county building downtown and take off to an unknown destination; the pilot would have had to file a flight plan."

"You got the registration number of the chopper?"

"Well, no..."

"So now we've gotta contact every heliport in Southern California in the hope that we hit the one that logged a plan into downtown LA. By the time we find it, Louie, they could be half way across the United States!"

"Calm down, Rick," Louie said, "we're the FBI; they're just locals. We'll find them."

"Any chance it was a PD copter?"

"I doubt it, but I'll check; they're local, but not stupid."

"They've sure made us look like a bunch of chumps."

"I'll lean on Donovan," Louie said, "he's gotta know somethin'..."

* * *

"I'm sorry...Agent Fox, was it?" Donovan smiled. "But I don't have information regarding the flight plan of that helicopter."

"But you did make the contact with the pilot on behalf of Monahan and Asten, didn't you?"

Donovan stared into the man's eyes. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Now you listen to me, Donovan, I'm the FBI, and you're a local police captain who's withholding information pertinent to a federal investigation. Do you have any idea the world of shit I can make for you?"

"Well Agent Fox, you'd have to have some kind of proof that I have information, and we both know you ain't got shit."

"You're protecting two former cops under your command. That's probable cause and connection, that's all I need."

"Uh-huh. And if that meant anything, Fox, you would have already hauled my ass into a federal lockup. You don't got a damned thing or you wouldn't be in here trying to bluff me. Now get out and stop wasting my time. I've got work to do."

Realizing he had no other course, Louie Fox stormed from Donovan's office, slamming the door behind him. Donovan shook his head, smiling, but the amusement was fleeting as his thoughts returned to the welfare of his friends.

* * *

Monahan glanced at his watch: it had been two hours since he'd arrived at his aunt's house, and Quincy was losing ground, fast. He tenderly held his friend's hand, as he'd done since Quincy had grasped it, noting that the coroner's pallor had turned slightly gray. He adjusted his position on the bed then, trying to alleviate the stiffness in his back, which had become fatigued from sitting so long without any support.

Quincy moaned in pain then, his head tossing from side to side. "Easy, Quincy," Monahan said softly.

The moans intensified and Monahan realized the ice had all but melted, allowing the medical examiner to become aware of the burning in his abdomen. Monahan tried to set the coroner's hand down, but Quincy frantically held onto him.

"Quince, rest easy, it's okay. I'm just gonna get some ice; it'll help with the pain in your belly."

But Quincy gripped Monahan's hand even tighter, delirious with hurt. Monahan felt his throat tighten and his eyes sting from the helpless despair that filled his heart. He softly brushed his hand over Quincy's brow.

"Aw, Quince, please take it easy, buddy. Please..."

Monahan rewet the washcloth and replaced it on Quincy's head, hoping the coolness of it would help soothe him. He finally pried his hand away, despite the medical examiner's disquieted cries, and taking the wet towel with him, he deposited it in the bathroom, grabbing a dry one. The ex-cop went into the kitchen, filled the towel with more ice and took it back to Quincy, gently placing it on the wound. He sat down on the edge of the bed, taking Quincy's hand in his own.

"Just hang on. They'll be here soon."

But Monahan was wondering what in the hell had happened to Asten and Sam...

* * *

The pilot and Asten chose to set the chopper down at the base of Clark Mountain, just north of I-15. The pilot secured them a car and once loaded, Sam and Asten were headed toward Victorville in a nondescript brown sedan, packed to the brim with lab equipment.

"We're about 40 miles from the Stoddard turnoff, Dr. Asten," Sam observed from the map, "I just hope it's not going to be too hard to find the house after dark."

Asten gripped the wheel in his hands, his stomach tied in knots with worry. "We just need to get there, Sam. Quincy was in bad shape when Monahan called and that was a good three hours ago."

Sam put a hand on the director's shoulder. "Quincy's pretty tough, Dr. Asten, don't forget that."

While Asten appreciated Fujiyama's attempt to calm him, he couldn't shake the feeling of dread from his soul.


	19. Chapter 19

The police commander slammed the communiqué down on Stan's desk, causing the captain to jump slightly.

"If you know anything about this, Donovan, you'd better spill it now. The FBI is out for somebody's head to roll, and I'm telling you, Stan, it's not going to be mine."

Donovan swallowed trying to alleviate the dryness in his mouth. "Alan, I already told you, both Monahan and Brill turned in their guns and their shields; I have no idea what they're doing."

"Stan, I'm warning you, if you try to protect Monahan in this, you're going to go down with him."

"I take it Sequana had to let Vandano and his men go."

"That's right. And all because your boys busted in where they had no business interfering, impersonating federal officers. Stan, this is bad. Sequana is ranting and raving about the helicopter incident, and I'm having a hard time keeping the mayor and his people off of my ass. I'll ask you once more: did you have anything to do with this? Are you holding anything back?"

Stan sighed. "Frank called in earlier."

"And?"

"And he said Quincy'd been shot and needed Asten."

"And?"

"And I told him that I thought Asten was a man of resources."

"That's all?"

"Yeah, that's it."

The commander stared at the captain. "It had better be."

Alan turned on his heel and walked out the door, leaving Donovan to stew in his worry.

* * *

"Are you sure about this, Rocky?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Our man on the inside, he said Sequana dumped the bones here, and the boss said he'd like we should get 'em. Bones," Rocky sighed. "I'm sitting out in front of a morgue waiting to break-in and steal some bones... this ain't Halloween, and I don't like it."

"Whaddya mean?"

"Mickey, it's desecration of the dead, and I just don't think we oughta..."

"But the boss said them bones could cause a lot of trouble if the wrong guy looked at 'em."

"Uh-huh. I still don't like it."

"Are ya scared, Rocky?"

"No I ain't scared, you meathead. It's just that places like this, they gimme the creeps."

Mickey laughed slightly and lit a cigarette: they just had to wait awhile longer until only the night duty staff remained.

* * *

Brill pulled Anselmo's car up near the delivery entrance at the Clark County Morgue. Danny fidgeted nervously in the seat next to him.

"Calm down, Danny."

"Calm down? I'm the very picture of serenity," Danny quipped sarcastically.

Brill stared at Danny's hands which were playing with every knob and switch in the car. "Yes. I can see that."

Danny glared at the ex-cop. "Morgues...I don't like them. They give me the willies."

"You've been in Quincy's morgue."

"Only twice, and both times it was against my better judgment. Let's just say I'm not comfortable around Quincy's patients..."

Brill shook his head. "They can't hurtcha, Danny, they're dead."

"I know they're dead. That's exactly what I don't like about them."

Brill kept his eyes on the building then glanced at his watch. "Okay."

"Okay, what?"

"Okay, let's go."

"Go?"

"Yes. Inside." Danny glared unhappily at Brill. "Here," Brill held out his revolver, "Why don't you hold on to this, and if any of the stiffs threaten you, you can shoot 'em."

"Very funny."

Brill laughed and put the gun away. "Come on."

Reluctantly Danny followed Brill out of the car and over to the delivery entrance. In less than a minute, Brill had jimmied the lock and they were on the inside.

"Tell me," Danny whispered, "why is it all you cops are so good at breaking into places?"

"Basic training at the Academy, but it's meant for breaking out, not in."

"Oh."

Brill and Danny silently moved through the corridor and over to the check-in counter, which was unmanned at night. Brill slipped behind the counter and began rifling through the files.

"Keep a watch on the corridor, Danny."

"Yeah," Danny said nervously, "as long as it ain't no stiffs I'm watchin' for."

After a few minutes, Brill found the receipt he wanted, memorized the drawer number and put everything away, restoring the area to the way it was before he began searching.

"Come on," Brill motioned to Tovo, "down here..."

Danny could see they were heading for the huge storage doors and he stopped moving. After a moment, Brill realized he was alone.

"Danny, come on!"

"The heart is willing, but the feet ain't moving."

Brill grabbed Danny by the sleeve and pulled him along. "I'm gonna have to have help to carry it."

"W-what?"

"You're going to have to help me carry it."

"I ain't touchin' it!"

"Danny, we don't have time for this..."

"Okay, okay..."

The two men proceeded into the cold storage room and after finding the right drawer, Brill slid it out, unzipped the body bag and checked the contents to be sure it was bones. Together with the reluctant Tovo, the two men carried the bag out of the room and down the corridor heading toward the delivery door. But as they turned the corner near the check-in counter, Brill saw that their luck had run out; before he could duck into another room, he caught the attention of the men he recognized from Vandano's penthouse. The mobsters looked up and it was obvious that the recognition was reciprocal.

"I told you I didn't wanna come in here," Danny muttered.

"Rocky, look, it's our friend from the IRS!"

The two mobsters pulled their guns and moved toward Brill and Danny, who ran back toward the storage room, dragging the bag of bones with them. As quickly as he could, Brill found an empty storage drawer and motioned to Tovo.

"Get in."

"What?"

"Get in, hurry!"

"No way. I ain't lyin where no stiff's been."

Brill grabbed Danny by the collar. "You either hide in here with the bones, or face big and bigger with me. What's it gonna be?"

Danny shook his head. "If you're gonna put it that way..." Brill shoved Danny into the drawer with the body bag. "I ain't never steppin' foot in no morgue ever again."

"Just be quiet and don't make a sound, no matter what you hear."

"I'll be as quiet as the rest of the residents."

Brill closed the drawer and hid behind some draped gurneys in the back, his gun in his hand. Not seconds later, Rocky and Mickey carefully walked in, their guns out and ready.

"Hey, taxman," Rocky called, "I think I made a mistake on my return. I think I owe you somethin'..."

Brill remained silently crouched in the dark, waiting.

"Come on, taxman, don't you wanna collect on what I owe?"

Rocky nodded to Mickey, indicating they should split up. Slowly and quietly, the two men moved through the room toward Brill.

"You don't stand a chance, taxman, and by the way, that's a nice BMW you're driving. Saw it out by the delivery door. Bet you've been pocketing some of that dough you've been collectin' from decent citizens."

Brill grimaced: if the guy had seen the car then he had made a note of the plate, and it could be traced right back to Anselmo, who would tell Vandano anything he wanted to know. It would only be a matter of time before they'd trace the place in the desert to Monahan. Brill shook his head: the mob would probably find it long before the FBI. He carefully peeked out over the gurney, then pulled his pocket knife from his jacket and lobbed it to the other side of the room. The two men turned toward the noise. Brill stood then, his two arms extended, the gun pointing directly at them.

"Drop the pieces, boys. I've got you cold."

Neither turned around, nor dropped their weapons.

"You heard me, drop 'em."

"I heard you, but I ain't heard your friend, taxman. He still here? If he ain't, then it's two against one. By the time we turn to face you, you'll only have time to shoot one of us, and then the other one'll kill you."

"Maybe I'll just shoot you in the back."

"You won't do that."

"Oh, I won't?"

"Nah. See I know who you really are, Sgt. Brill of the LAPD. You'll wait until we turn and it's clear we're gunning for you. That's how all of you cops are trained, you can't do nothin' else."

"The only problem with that is that I'm not a cop anymore. The way I see it, it's either the two of you or me. I'd rather it was me." He could see the man's muscles tighten as uncertainty creeped in; the bluff might work. "What's it gonna be? You two gonna join the other stiffs in here?"

"Damn..." Rocky muttered.

"Put the guns down, and put your hands in the air."

Reluctantly Rocky and Mickey put their guns down and their hands in the air. Brill moved in and cuffed Rocky to a metal pole against the wall, then he tied Mickey up with some telephone line and gagged both of them with hand towels. He put away his gun and went to the drawer where Danny was hiding, opened it and helped Tovo up.

"You okay, Danny? You look a little funny."

"You lie in there awhile and see what it does for your complexion."

Shrugging, Brill picked up one end of the body bag and headed toward the door.

"Ta-ta, boys, try and stay cool now, okay?" Brill said as they ducked out of the room.

The two men walked out of the delivery entrance carrying the body bag, jumped into the car and headed toward Victorville.

* * *

Asten turned up the dirt road and headed into the pitch blackness of the California desert on a moonless night. Sam glanced over at his boss and noticed how tightly Asten was gripping the steering wheel.

"Are you all right, Dr. Asten?" His lilting voice asked.

"Yes," came the curt reply.

Taking an educated guess regarding the director's anxiety, Sam said, "How long has it been since you've performed surgery?"

Asten blinked his eyes and swallowed. "Not since residency."

Even though Sam figured it had been a long time, he hadn't expected such a response. "Oh."

"It doesn't mean I've forgotten how, Sam," Asten said defensively.

"I didn't mean to imply such a thing, Dr. Asten."

But Asten could feel Fujiyama's growing apprehension regarding Quincy's continued existence under Asten's scalpel.

"I won't lie to you, Sam, I'm nervous. It's particularly disturbing that the patient is--" But he cut himself off, unable to say it. Asten reached over and squeezed Sam's arm. "I'm not going to let Quincy die. You have my word on that."

Sam nodded and looked away, out into the darkness of the night. And then he saw the pale yellow light. "Over there, Dr. Asten. That must be it."

Asten pulled next to the blue rental sedan and grabbing his medical bag, he and Sam went to the door, and knocked loudly.

After a moment or so, Monahan's voice asked, "Who is it?"

"It's Asten and Sam," Bob replied.

The door opened and Asten was slightly startled by the former lieutenant's disheveled appearance. He noted the soiled bandage on the man's forehead and started to reach for it to check the wound, but Monahan shoved his hand away.

His voice was tired and brusque, "Quincy's back here."

The two men followed Monahan to the bedroom and Asten's heart dropped to his knees when he saw his pale medical examiner lying on the bed. He sat softly on the edge, opened his bag and pulled out his stethoscope. He listened to Quincy's heart, checked his pulse and blood pressure then as gently as he could, lifted the towel of ice off the wound. He examined Quincy's belly, and felt his eyes sting slightly with overwhelming fear.

"Well?" Monahan prodded.

Asten stood, pulled his stethoscope off, and angrily tossed it into the bag. "It's worse than I imagined. Much worse."

"What in the hell are you sayin'?"

Asten's face colored with anger. "You should have taken him to a hospital, Monahan. What in the hell were you thinking?"

"I didn't have a choice, I couldn't do that," Monahan's voice was tinged with rising tension.

"And if he dies, it's on your head," Asten growled.

Whatever was left of either man's emotional control, burst wide open.

"How dare you lay this on me," Monahan snarled, his face red with fury. "It was your butt Quincy was trying to pull from the sling that got him into this mess in the first place - or have you forgotten?"

"And you were supposed to protect him from the mob, not get him shot!"

Sam tensely observed as the two men moved dangerously close to one another, their statements of blame becoming more fierce with each passing retort; he was afraid that it might come to blows.

"Are you gonna just stand here and scream at me while Quincy's lyin' there dyin'? Or are you just blowin' smoke up my ass because you're afraid you're gonna kill him with your rusty scalpel?"

Whether it was fear that the man's words were true, or anger at his audacity in saying it, Asten didn't know, but suddenly he had Monahan by the shirt collar, and he was preparing to slug him.

"Stop," the pained voice croaked from the bed, "please stop it. No one's to blame. You're tearing each other apart because of me, and I won't have it. Settle down, both of you before one of you does something we'll all regret."

Monahan and Asten glared at each other for a long, tense moment, then slowly, Asten released his hold on the ex-cop and sat, ashamed on the bed.

"I'm sorry, Quincy," Asten said softly, "I...I don't know what got into me just now." He looked down and muttered, "Monahan, I'm sorry."

Monahan slipped a caring hand on Asten's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "We're both upset and on edge, Asten, I'm sorry too."

Asten laid a deceptively calm hand on Quincy's brow. "You're awfully warm..."

"For a couple of days now," Quincy said meaningfully.

"Your ulcer started to bleed..." Quincy nodded and Asten continued, the fear in his voice apparent, "It could present complications..."

Quincy felt the trepidation in his friend's voice, and he looked deeply into Asten's dark eyes. "I trust you, Bob. There's no one I'd rather have fighting for me right now."

Asten blinked away the moisture that had pooled in his eyes and he pat Quincy's cheek. "Pain bad?" Quincy nodded and Asten continued, "I'll give you something to help pull the edge off."

Quincy nodded again and closed his eyes. Asten filled a syringe with an ampule of morphine, then dabbed the inside of his friend's elbow with alcohol. He inserted the needle, pressed the plunger, pulled the needle out and gently massaged the area he injected, helping to push the drug into the bloodstream. After a few minutes, Quincy's body visibly relaxed.

"Asten," Monahan said, "What do you need us to do?"

"We need a table."

"There's one in the dining room."

"Sam, set up a makeshift sterile field in there, and prep the table for surgery. Monahan, if you could help him with that, I'd be grateful."

Sam moved immediately, relieved to have something to do, and to get away from the out of control emotions that were threatening to pull down his own thinly covered veil of fear.

Monahan squeezed Asten's shoulder. "I'm sorry about before Asten, I didn't mean it."

"I know that. I didn't either."

Monahan slipped quickly from the room to help Sam, leaving Asten to care for Quincy. The director tenderly picked up the coroner's pale, still hand, holding it softly between both of his.

His voice was filled with the fear of one man for losing another. "Don't you die on me, Quincy," he whispered, "Don't you die."


	20. Chapter 20

Monahan and Sam carefully laid Quincy down on the sheet-covered dining room table, the former gently laying the coroner's head on the pillow. The ex-cop noted the tight grimace on his friend's face from the jarring movement, and soothingly stroked his hand over Quincy's brow.

"Breathe easy."

Satisfied that Quincy was in good hands, Sam turned to hang the last of the sheets which served as a sterile barrier from the rest of the room, enclosing them in a rectangle around the table. He replaced the 60-watt bulbs in the overhead light with high-powered ones from the lab, allowing the makeshift surgical area to shine brightly. Sam then motioned to Monahan and the two of them stepped out of the small area, almost bumping into Asten, who was already dressed in his greens, mask and surgical gown.

"Get into your gear, gentlemen, I'm going to start scrubbing," he said stoically.

Asten went into the kitchen, and using the sterile soap and brushes Sam had packed, he began to scrub his hands and arms. After a few minutes, Monahan and Sam joined him. When they were finished, the three of them walked into the sterile field Sam had created, and put gloves on. Asten leaned down toward his patient's face.

"How are you holding up, Quincy?" He asked softly.

"Kinda tired."

"We're going to start an IV soon, and we're going to give you several units of blood. You'll feel a lot better once that bullet's out of there and you've had a transfusion." Asten tried to swallow down the lump in his throat, "I'm going to have Sam put you out with a tranq now; I don't dare use anything heavier without an anesthesiologist." Asten's mouth suddenly went dry. "You... you might feel it, Quincy."

"I understand," the coroner said, "I'll try not to move on you."

Sensing the tension from his patient, Asten said, "Don't you worry about that or anything else. Everything's going to be just fine. This really isn't as bad as I first thought..."

Quincy shook his head. "Bob, you don't have to lie to me. I love you for saying it, I really do, but I know my odds aren't very good; and if something goes wrong, I don't want you to--"

"--Nothing is going to go wrong, Quincy," Asten said sternly, "You got that?"

The coroner stared hard into the determined eyes and responded, "Yeah, I got it. But just in case it does, I want you to promise me you won't blame yourself."

For a long moment, the two men held each other's gaze, until finally Asten broke away.

"Sam," Asten said thickly, "You ready with the diazepam?"

"Yes, doctor."

"Okay, let's go. He's had that bullet in him far too long as it is..."

Sam bent over Quincy, and carefully injected him with a large dose of the tranquilizer. "I'll see you when you wake up, Quince."

"You got it, buddy," Quincy answered softly.

The coroner looked over at Monahan then, for the man hadn't said a word. He was standing rigidly with his hands folded tightly in front of him, his eyes colored with intensity; but even through the mask, Quincy could read his friend's fear.

"Relax, Frank," he said with a small grin, "Asten's cutting on me, not you."

Monahan nodded at Quincy, but found he couldn't speak. He could give voice neither to the love in his heart, nor the fear in his soul. He couldn't tell Quincy how much he respected him, or how much he cared for him; they just didn't speak that way to each other. But as Quincy's eyelids fluttered closed, Frank Monahan wished he'd had the courage to push aside what had always been between them; for his very being was now weighted down with a sorrow he knew would become his everlasting burden should he not be given another chance. His light blue eyes glistened with moisture just as Asten turned to look at him.

"Monahan? You okay?"

"Yeah," he said softly, blinking away the affection, "I just don't know if he knows."

Understanding the depth of Monahan's emotions, Asten nodded. "He knows, Frank. We all do." And Dr. Robert J. Asten turned to Sam Fujiyama, who stood nearby at the makeshift instrument table and crisply ordered, "Scalpel."

* * *

"This is not what I pay you for, Rocky," Vandano roared. "You were outwitted by a coupla stiffs in the morgue. And the bones, Rocky, you let 'em get the bones." Rocky couldn't meet Vandano's eyes. "What am I supposed to do, Rocky? Huh? You tell me, what am I supposed to do?"

"Mr. Vandano...if you gimme another chance I can get these guys. All of 'um. I got the plate of the car they was drivin' and Vinny says it's registered to the guy who runs the lounge right here at the Sands. He's cousins or somethin' with that Tovo guy. I'm sure we can have him singin' before long."

Vandano nodded, considering. "What are you suggestin'?"

"I'm sure this guy has some idea where they were goin'...and I'm bettin' they're meetin' them other two."

"We don't want that coroner investigating the skeleton, Rocky," Vandano growled, "It'd be bad for business."

"That coroner's got a bullet in him, Mr. Vandano. He ain't gonna be in no condition to look at nothin'..."

"Maybe. Maybe not. You find out where these guys are holed up, and then get rid of 'em. All of 'em. I don't care how, as long as it ain't traceable. Capice?"

Rocky nodded, relief filling him. "I'll take care of it, Mr. Vandano."

"See that you do, Rocky, otherwise that lounge guy's gonna have a fishing partner."

* * *

"Clamp," Asten ordered.

Sam slapped the instrument in his hand, and Asten attached it to a bleeding vessel; but no sooner did he get one clamped off, another would rupture.

"Damnit... Sam, get this blood out of here, I can't see what I'm doing."

"I'm trying, Dr. Asten," Sam said, "but he's rupturing faster than I can keep up with it."

Asten glanced up at the unit of blood that was almost empty. "We're going to run out of blood soon..."

"We've got three more units, Dr. Asten," Sam offered, "if we can get the bleeding under control, we'll be okay."

Monahan, who hadn't said a word since the surgery had begun, spoke up, "I'm type O, Asten, if he needs more, you take it outta me."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that, Monahan."

Asten reached down into the incision with forceps, and Quincy groaned softly in pain. He once more tried to grasp the bullet, but again it slipped from his grip. Silently and calmly, Sam wiped the man's brow, and Asten re-gripped the instrument. Deciding he needed to be more aggressive, Asten plunged the forceps into the wound, this time causing Quincy to moan louder.

"Asten," Monahan said with alarm, "why's he moanin' like that?"

"Because he's not completely under, Monahan," Asten growled through gritted teeth.

The doctor gripped the bullet then and quickly pulled it toward the open incision, and Quincy began to thrash on the table.

"Monahan, Sam," Asten ordered, "hold him down!"

Together Monahan and Fujiyama held Quincy down on the table and listened to their friend whimper in pain, neither conscious nor unaware. Pulling hard and fast on the bullet, Asten finally yanked it clear, but the coroner cried out in agony. Asten tossed the forceps and lead into a basin, fighting to keep the sting in his eyes from overtaking him.

"Sam, I need you to irrigate this so I can get back in there. Monahan, try and keep Quincy calm and still."

Fujiyama flushed the wound with saline and the coroner thrashed again, despite the ex-cop's attempt to hold him down.

"Isn't there anything you can do for his pain, Asten?" Monahan's tense voice asked.

"I can't risk it. Mixing the diazepam with morphine might kill him."

Monahan held Quincy's upper body down on the table, and spoke softly to him. "Easy does it, Quincy. I know it's hurtin' bad. Asten's almost done, just hang tough, buddy..."

Asten wished he was almost finished, but between the damage from the bullet and the erosion from Quincy's ulcer, it was far from the truth; but he said nothing. Instead, he waited for Sam to irrigate the wound, and then with hands steadier than he had remembered, Asten began cauterizing severed vessels, and closing lesions produced from an ulcer that hadn't been allowed to heal. Occasionally Quincy moaned or moved in response to pain, but Monahan kept him fairly still as Asten moved methodically from the worst of the damage to the least.

But whether or not Quincy would survive, Asten didn't know...


	21. Chapter 21

Rocky tossed Anselmo roughly into the chair in the corner of the small room.

"I told you," Anselmo said shakily, "I don't know where they went, they did not tell me!"

"You gave them your car; your cousin's with them, you must have some idea where they were goin'..." Rocky leaned down into the younger man's face. "And if you don't start singin' it's gonna cost you more than just a good plastic surgeon."

Anselmo licked the salt from his lips. "Danny said something about a place in Victorville."

"Yeah, and?"

"And that's all I know. It is some place outside Victorville. He didn't tell me anymore than that." Rocky slugged him hard across the face. "I swear, he did not tell me anything else."

"A place outside of Victorville... he must have said something more than that."

"No, no, I swear." Rocky pulled a gun from under his jacket, cocked it and held it to Anselmo's head. "No, no, please..."

"You'd better tell me all of it, Anselmo."

Sweat began to bead across the man's forehead. "I...I don't know exactly where they are, I swear it, but..."

Rocky grabbed the man hard by the neck, pressing the barrel of the gun into Anselmo's forehead. "But what, Anselmo? I'm runnin' out of patience."

His voice trembling with fear, Anselmo spoke softly, "He said one of the cops had a house outside the town. It was a family place or something, and it was some distance outside the town." He looked into Rocky's dangerous eyes. "Now I swear to you, on my mama's grave, that is all I know."

Rocky smiled then. "I believe you, Anselmo." The smile was disconcerting and grew wider. "How long ago did you lose your poor mama?"

"Ten years."

"Then it's been a long time since you've seen her. I'm sure you miss her." His smile widened. "I'm gonna fix that..."

And before Anselmo could comprehend the meaning of the words, Rocky pulled the trigger.

* * *

Vandano's hoods sped along the I-15 in their Lincoln Towncar, heading toward Victorville.

"How we gonna find this joint without more info, Rocky?'

"It don't matter if we go from house to house, Mickey, we ain't got not choice."

Mickey frowned, not immediately understanding what Rocky was saying. "Can we stop at that diner off the highway and get some pie?"

Rocky shook his head: Mickey was good with a gun, but other than killing and eating, he was pretty much taking up space. But all he said was, "Yeah, we can get pie."

* * *

The moaning from the table caused him to stir. Asten straightened up in his chair, and leaned toward his patient, placing a gentle hand on the man's shoulder.

"Quincy?"

The medical examiner's eyes fluttered open and he grimaced in pain, but he whispered, "Bob... you look tired."

"Never mind how I look, let me take a listen here..."

Asten picked up his stethoscope and listened to the coroner's chest, then checked his pulse against the second hand of his wristwatch. He sat back down in the chair, once again returning a calm hand to Quincy's shoulder.

His voice was soft with affection, "Your vitals are pretty weak from the blood loss; how do you feel?"

"Like I was flattened by a steamroller," he muttered.

Asten grinned slightly. "Is that a comment on my surgical technique, doctor?"

Making no attempt to join in the repartee, Quincy shook his head, frowning in discomfort. "It just hurts."

Asten stroked his hand over Quincy's brow. "We've got to wait a little while before I can give you anything more for the pain." His eyes stinging with distress, Quincy simply nodded, and Asten swallowed hard. "What can I do to make it a little easier?"

"Just stay close, Bob," Quincy said weakly, "Please..."

Asten couldn't keep the emotion from his voice, "You can count on it."

* * *

The pounding on the front door jarred Monahan from his disquieted sleep on the couch. He bolted upright, grabbing his gun from the coffee table, and he quickly went to the door.

"Who's there?" He demanded.

"Lieutenant, it's Brill..."

Monahan opened the door. "What the hell took you guys so long?"

Brill and Danny moved into the room, carrying the bag of remains with them.

"We ran into a little trouble at the house of stiffs," Danny said.

"What kind of trouble?" Monahan demanded.

"A couple of Vandano's men, lieutenant," Brill explained, "But they weren't too mobile when we left."

One of Monahan's eyebrows shot up, but he didn't probe further on the subject. "Bones are in the bag?"

"Yep."

Danny and Brill set the bag down on the coffee table, and Tovo shook his head. "I ain't never walkin' into no morgue again." He looked at Monahan. "I had to hide out in one of them stiff drawers. I ain't never doin' no morgue break again."

Monahan stared at Brill. "Why is it I get the feeling that you two almost didn't get back here..."

Brill shrugged. "We're here. That's what counts."

Danny's voice turned soft, "How's Quincy?"

Monahan shook his head. "Asten got the bullet out, but Quincy's pretty weak."

"I don't know how wise it is to stay here, lieutenant," Brill said, "they got the car and the plate. Given Vandano's resources, I doubt it'll take him long to track us down."

Monahan's lips pursed slightly. "We're not gonna be able to move Quincy too quickly. He's stable, but Asten seems pretty worried about him."

"I'd like to see him," Danny said.

Monahan nodded toward the makeshift operating room. "Come on, but be quiet in case he's asleep..."

* * *

The three men softly walked into the dining room, through the hanging sheets, and into the now dimly lit area. Asten had fallen asleep, his head leaning on Quincy's forearm. Monahan walked up behind the doctor's chair and gripped Asten gently by the shoulders, squeezing the man's muscles.

"Asten?" His gentle voice said, "Hey, Asten..."

Bob stirred with a slight moan and then started awake. "What...what's wrong?"

"Relax. Danny and Brill finally showed up with the skeleton Quincy wanted."

Asten nodded to the two men. "Everything okay, gentlemen?"

"As okay as it could have been, Dr. Asten," Brill responded. "How's Quincy?"

Asten looked down at his patient. "In a lot of pain, and awfully weak, I'm afraid." He stood. "Brill, Danny...would you two stay with him for a few minutes? Monahan, I'd like to talk to you."

Danny moved closer and took Quincy's hand in his own. "Sure, doc, sure."

Brill stepped in a little, and Monahan followed Asten into the kitchen.

"What is it, Asten?" Monahan asked tightly.

"Did you mean what you said before? About giving Quincy some blood?"

"Of course I did."

"He could really use it if you can spare it."

"You take whatever he needs, Asten."

"Thank you, Monahan."

Uncomfortable with the deep emotion he could sense from Asten, the ex-cop headed back toward the dining room. "Well come on, let's not make him wait any longer," he growled.

Asten followed Monahan into the little sterile area and looked on for a moment as Quincy stirred uneasily in his sleep. Tovo turned toward the doctor.

"Is he gonna be okay, Dr. Asten?"

"I hope so, Danny." He turned toward Brill, "Sergeant, Sam's asleep in the bedroom, would you ask him to please prepare the bed for Quincy, and do whatever you can to help him?"

"Sure."

"Monahan," Asten indicated the only chair in the area, "let's get started."

"What can I do?" Danny asked, feeling utterly useless.

"Try and keep Quincy as quiet and comfortable as possible. He's had a pretty rough time of it."

Danny nodded and gently gripped the coroner's hand in his, softly rubbing the top of it with his other; even if it only helped a little, it was better than standing around doing nothing.

* * *

Mickey took another bite of pie while he waited for Rocky to get back from the pay phone across the street from the Coco's in Victorville. Business in the coffee shop was brisk, and Mickey chalked it up to the fact that there wasn't much else to do in town. The fact was, there was nothing to do in town. Rocky walked into the restaurant and sat down in the booth.

"You couldn't wait for me?"

Mickey looked at his plate of pie. "I was hungry. And I like the pie here, Rocky."

Rocky shook his head. "The manners of the old days are gone, and so is the class."

"I'm sorry, Rocky, I didn't mean nothin' by it...You find anything out?"

"Not yet. Mr. Vandano says we should sit tight here in town."

"Good, I'm tired. We could get a room at that motel we passed on the way in."

"We can't sit in no motel, Mickey. We gotta sit in the car and wait for one of these guys to show his face in town. Then we just follow him back to wherever they're holed up."

"And then we go in..."

"No. Then we call for back-up. I ain't takin' no chances this time. Mr. Vandano wants these guys dead. He wants them bones at the bottom of Lake Mead."

"Are we in trouble, Rocky?"

"Let's just say it's either them, or us, Mickey."

"I don't want it should be us, Rocky."

"Me neither..."

* * *

Sam attached the unit of blood Asten took from Monahan to Quincy's IV. The men had carried Quincy into the bedroom, and laid him on the bed; but Sam could see from his friend's face that the move had taken a toll, and he was in a lot of pain. He squeezed the man's shoulder gently.

"Hang in there, Quince, Asten said he'd give you some morphine in a couple of minutes."

"I hope so, Sam," the medical examiner said through clenched teeth, "I can't take too much more of this."

Fujiyama nodded and then left the room to move Asten along. Danny stepped a little closer, so that Quincy could see him.

"You look like you could use a drink, doc."

"Yeah," Quincy tried to force a slight smile, "even one of yours..."

"Spoken like an Irishman; that's Monahan's blood you're gettin' all right..."

Asten walked in then, carrying a loaded syringe and an alcohol swab. "Danny, if you'll excuse us a minute please."

"Sure, sure. Take it easy, Quince, I'll see you in awhile."

Quincy nodded to Danny and tried to catch Asten's dark eyes as the man set the syringe aside on the table and pulled the blanket down below Quincy's hip. Without a word Asten pulled the coroner's underwear down slightly and lifted his shirt. He swabbed the area of skin above Quincy's pelvis, then picked up the syringe and plunged the contents into his bloodstream. The medical examiner winced at the needle prick, but a moment later, as the drug moved into his system, his body relaxed slightly. Asten set the empty syringe down, covered Quincy and sat softly on the edge of the bed.

"Better?"

"Yeah, thanks." Quincy stared into the dark abyss of Asten's eyes and said, "Don't worry so much, will ya?"

"That's what I do for a living, Quincy." He looked up at the rapidly emptying plastic bag of Monahan's blood. "I've got one more unit of O to give you after this."

Quincy frowned slightly. "How much did you take out of Monahan?"

"Two pints."

"_Two pints?_ Asten--"

"--Be quiet. You needed it, and Monahan will be fine after some rest and an iron shot." He checked Quincy's pulse then, followed by his reflexes. "That's more like it..."

The medical examiner smiled slightly. "You mean I'm going to survive despite the attending surgeon?"

"You think it's funny now, doctor, but when that morphine wears off, you won't be laughing." Asten started away, but Quincy grabbed his forearm, hard. "Quincy, what's the matter?"

The medical examiner couldn't keep the deep affection from his timbre, "You really came through for me, Bob."

"Yes, well--"

"--You were here when I needed you; I'm not going to forget it."

Asten smiled at him. "You just remember that the next time you're in my office screaming your head off about some cockamamie experimental technique you want me to pay for."

Quincy grinned, changing the subject. "Brill and Danny get the skeleton?"

"Yes. Sam and I will begin the prelim tests in the morning, after we've had a few hours sleep. And speaking of sleep, doctor, it's long past time you had some."

"I want to examine the bones."

"You'll do no such thing," Asten said sternly, "You're going to rest." His voice shook with emotion, "Do you have any idea how close we came to losing you?" Bob looked away then, embarrassed at having voiced his fear. Quincy laid a soft hand on Asten's arm, and the director glared at his medical examiner, growling, "I simply meant that it would have been a nightmare of paperwork for me to replace you, not to mention the hassle of training a new man, and well, Monahan would have been upset."

Quincy's eyebrows shot up. "Monahan would have been upset?"

Asten stood up and headed for the door. "Well yes, Quincy...how would you feel if you wasted two pints of perfectly good blood?"

Before the medical examiner could muster a retort, Asten slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him. After a few minutes, Quincy dropped off into a deep sleep, oblivious to the fact that Vandano's men were less than seven miles away from the small, white house in the desert.


	22. Chapter 22

Asten pulled the syringe from Monahan's arm and the Irishman made a face. "Use a bigger needle, why don'tcha..."

Asten set the syringe down. "The iron will help you recover faster."

"I woulda been fine, Asten," Monahan assured him, "I've given blood before, you know."

Asten sat down on the coffee table in front of Monahan, holding the ex-cop's wrist between his fingers to check his pulse. "How about you be the cop and let me be the doctor?"

Monahan yanked his arm away from Asten and stood quickly. "Don't pull a Quincy on me, I tell you, I'm fine--"

The ex-cop swayed, his face draining of all color. Asten stood, grasped him by the arms, and gently sat him back down. "You were saying, lieutenant?"

"All right, all right," Monahan acquiesced, "I feel a little tired. Ya happy now?"

"Oh yes," Asten said as he gently pushed Monahan into a prone position on the couch, "immensely." He covered the Irishman with a blanket and put a pillow under his head. "You relax, lieutenant, I'm going to change that bandage on your head. It looks like it's been there since World War II." Monahan rolled his eyes, but ignoring him, Asten removed the soiled gauze and grimaced at the sight of the infected wound on the ex-cop's forehead. "Oh Monahan, did you even clean this?"

"It hasn't been my top priority, Asten."

The doctor nodded, patting Monahan's shoulder. "I know. I'm just concerned about how deeply the infection's set in." Asten cleaned the wound with alcohol and covered it with gauze, putting one of Monahan's hands over it. "Hold that."

He reached into his bag and pulled out a curved suture needle and 5-0 silk.

"What are you doin'?" Monahan asked, his voice filled with annoyance.

"You need stitches."

"Oh no you don't..."

"Exactly when and where did you receive your medical degree, lieutenant?" Monahan glared at Asten, but didn't respond. Asten threaded the needle and removed the gauze. "This is going to hurt a bit."

"I think you're enjoying the reactions you can get with live patients..."

"Actually, Monahan, I prefer patients who can't talk back," Asten growled.

"I'll bet you haven't heard so much squwakin' since your residency," Monahan sneered.

Asten pushed the needle through Monahan's flesh a little harder than he needed to.

"Ow!"

Asten smiled. "I'll bet you're right..."

Realizing that Asten had the upper hand, Monahan kept his head still, and his mouth shut.

* * *

Sam emerged sleepily from the bedroom where he'd sat by Quincy through the early hours of the morning. Monahan was asleep on the couch in the living room with Asten in a chair nearby; Danny and Brill were wrapped in blankets on the floor. Sam couldn't help but think that under other circumstances, the scene would have been entertaining, but considering that Quincy had almost died and all of them were now fugitives from the FBI, he couldn't see the humor. He headed into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee, then peered back out into the living room, debating on how much longer he should let Asten sleep; the doctor looked uncomfortable at best sitting in the chair, but the technician knew the man had to be exhausted.

Deciding to let Asten sleep awhile longer, Fujiyama sorted through the supplies that Monahan had brought with him, realizing that if they were going to be imprisoned outside of Victorville for an undetermined amount of time, a market run was in order. He made a mental note to ask Danny if he'd take charge of the food inventory and acquisition. The coffee finished brewing and Sam poured himself a cup, but the voice from behind caused him to bobble it, spilling some of the hot liquid down the side of the mug.

"I thought I smelled coffee," Asten said.

"Yes sir," Sam responded, "I figured we could use a pot." Sam poured Asten a cup and handed it to him, "Here you go."

"Thanks." For a moment the two men sipped the warm liquid in silence, but then Asten continued, "I thought we'd examine the bones in the dining room, since we already have the proper lighting and sterile field in there."

"Yes sir."

"Perhaps Brill will help with the equipment set up while I check on Quincy."

"That's a good idea." Sam took a sip of coffee and observed the deep-seated worry in Asten's dark eyes over the rim of his cup. "Dr. Asten?"

"Yes?"

"Is Quincy going to be okay?"

"I think so, Sam, with the proper rest and care anyway..."

"Then why do you look so worried?"

Asten pitched his voice carefully neutral, "I hadn't realized that I looked worried."

"You do."

"Oh." Asten took another sip from his mug. "I don't like seeing people in pain. I never did."

The unusual vulnerability in Asten's voice surprised the technician. "Is that why you went into administration?"

"Yes," Asten answered curtly. "It's a terrible thing to watch someone suffer; especially if it's someone close..."

Sensing Asten's growing discomfort with speaking on such a personal level, Sam changed the subject. "Monahan's sleeping pretty soundly, although he looks a little pale."

"I took a lot of blood from him." Asten swallowed some coffee. "But without it, I don't think Quincy would have made it."

"I wish we could take Quince to a hospital."

Asten sighed, realizing for the first time how truly exhausted he felt. "So do I, but then Sequana would take custody of him, and I have no confidence in how long Quincy would stay alive in that scenario."

"If we can rebuild the person that the skeleton belongs to, and link its death to Vandano, then Sequana will be satisfied, and we'll all be off the hook, including Quincy," Sam offered.

"Yeah," Asten sighed, "but Quincy's the expert on post mortems of this type, and he's in no condition to help us." Asten set his mug down on the counter, sighing heavily. "I'd better go check on him. Sam, can you get started on setting up?"

"Yes, Dr. Asten." Bob headed toward the door, but Sam's voice called him back, "Dr. Asten?"

"Yes, Sam?"

"Try not to worry so much; Quincy believes in you and so do I."

Asten smiled in embarrassment. "Thanks Sam...I...I appreciate the vote of confidence."

* * *

Sequana glared in Louie's direction. "Well?"

Fox shook his head. "We're working on it, Rick."

"That's not good enough, Louie. We're talking about six men, one of whom has a bullet in him. They couldn't have just faded into the ethers..."

A small man who Sequana recognized as one of the bureau researchers burst into the room, carrying a computer print out. "Agent Sequana, I've got something..."

Sequana pulled the paper from the man's hands and read it. "Clark County morgue," he said to Fox, "they had a break-in last night. Give you one guess what came up missing..."

"The skeleton from the Kantana."

"Exactly."

"The only question is which one of them did it? Vandano or Monahan?"

"There were signs of a struggle and a pair of sawed-off handcuffs were found on the floor."

"Hmmm," Fox said, "sounds like maybe all of our boys ran into each other at the morgue."

"Yes," Sequana continued, "and my guess is Monahan's boys came out on top."

Fox licked his lips. "If Vandano's men were there, Rick, it sort of gives credence to what Quincy was saying about the bones."

"Not necessarily, Louie, it could just be that Vandano was looking for the quickest way to tag onto their tails."

"Maybe. But that begs the question of why he thought they'd go after the bones given the risk to themselves."

Sequana nodded, then realized the strange little researcher was still standing there, watching the two men as if he was observing a tennis match. "You," Sequana growled at him, "what's your name?"

"Uh, Larousse, sir."

"Good work Larousse."

"Thank you, sir."

"You seem to be pretty good with a computer interface."

"Yes sir, it's my specialty. I think one day the bureau's going to be able to track criminals, and even solve cases by using computers. The technology's even going to become small enough and user-friendly enough that one day, we'll all have them on our desks as tools, the way we use papers, pens and telephones."

Sequana looked at him strangely, but let it pass and instead said, "Fine, fine, Larousse, I need you to do something for me. These men have to be holed up somewhere between Los Angeles and Las Vegas. You have all their names, right?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. See what you can find with that computer of yours and get back to me with some possibilities in the next couple of hours."

"Yes sir!"

Larousse left the room and Louie looked over at Sequana. "Wars have been waged and won by such men..."

Sequana shook his head and the two of them turned their attention back to their work. If Vandano's men were that close, it meant that the stakes had risen to a much higher level: it was no longer a game of chase and apprehension, but rather a race against time for life or death. He honestly hoped they would find Quincy and his team before Vandano.

* * *

Danny pulled Monahan's car into the parking lot of the Circle K market. He pulled a list from his pocket and went into the store, unaware of the two men observing him from across the street.

"That's him, ain't it, Rocky?"

"Oh yeah, that's our boy all right."

"We gonna nab him when he comes out?"

"Nah. We're gonna follow him back to wherever it is they're holed up."

"And then we're gonna get all of 'em..."

"No, then we're gonna call Mr. Vandano and tell him where they are..."

"Oh." Mickey smiled then. "We can get pie after that, can't we Rocky?"

"Yeah Mickey, you can have pie later. But not until after we've disposed of our little band of problems."

Mickey was already onto the pie. "I'm gonna get coconut cream..."

Rocky shook his head; how the guy had managed to stay in Vandano's good graces for so long was beyond him. But then again, sometimes it probably paid to be good with a gun, and dumb as a stump. He shook his head, smiling: apple pie with chocolate ice cream sounded awfully good.

* * *

Asten gently wiped Quincy's face down with a cool cloth causing the coroner to moan softly.

"Why is it so warm in here?" Quincy asked weakly.

"You're running a little fever, Quincy," Asten answered, "nothing for you to worry about."

But the concern on Asten's face told a different story. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

The doctor dunked the cloth into the cold water again, and squeezed the excess water out. He placed it over his patient's brow. "I want you to get some rest, Quincy, it's the best thing for you right now."

Quincy's large gray eyes drooped tiredly at him. "I feel a little nauseous."

Asten nodded. "That's not surprising."

"Infection in spite of the antiobiotics you're pumping into me?"

"The damage to your stomach lining from both the bullet and the ulcer was extensive," Asten answered carefully.

But the coroner could sense the man's fear. "Hey, you're really scared...please don't be." Quincy noticed the exhaustion in Asten's eyes then. "Have you slept at all in the past two days?" The director just shook his head, and the coroner continued, "Bob, I'm sorry for putting you into this position. I know how tough this is on you."

"This wasn't your fault, Quincy, and I don't want you thinking about me in this; I came to terms with my father's death a long time ago, you know that."

The medical examiner pitched his voice very gently, "If that was true, Bob, you wouldn't still be hiding behind a desk."

Asten looked down, fidgeting with the reading glasses in his hands. "This is a different situation; nothing's going to happen to you." His eyes quickly flicked up into Quincy's then, his voice quivering slightly with emotion. "You're going to be all right, Quincy."

The medical examiner put his hand softly over one of Asten's. "Which one of us are you really trying to convince of that?"

Asten's dark eyes glistened with moisture, and his voice was colored with uncertainty, "I don't know." The doctor could read the effort his patient was expending in the conversation, and he squeezed Quincy's hand. "You need to rest. How's your pain level?"

"It's okay," he answered tiredly.

"Then close your eyes and go to sleep."

Quincy's eyelids fluttered closed as Asten pulled the blanket up tighter over Quincy's chest. He stood and walked toward the dining room and the waiting autopsy; at least that victim's suffering had ended a long time ago.

* * *

Danny drove along the dirt road, unaware of the sedan following quite a distance behind him. He pulled the car next to Anselmo's and began lugging the bags of groceries into the house. Rocky stopped his car at the side of the dirt road and watched while Tovo unloaded the bags. When he was satisfied that the occupants were staying put, he turned the car around and headed back into town and a pay phone. Vandano needed to be notified and then all they had to do was wait for reinforcements and nightfall. Luckily the house was far enough out of the way that any noise issuing from the area would go unheard and unnoticed. An all out war could take place and the nearest neighbor was too far away to hear a damned thing.

Rocky smiled: at least this part of the operation was going to go smoothly. There would of course be the obligatory gunplay as the men in the house realized Vandano's men were outside, but they would be no match for the syndicate in fire power or number. Once subdued, all Rocky would have to do was set fire to the house and that would be the end of all of them, and the skeleton. He couldn't think of a better ending to a long couple of days.


	23. Chapter 23

It had taken Asten two hours to carefully examine all of the skeletal remains under a bright light with a magnifier, and he could feel the tension in his neck muscles from the effort.

"Okay, Sam, let's tack it together, so I can see what's missing."

"Yes Dr. Asten."

Sam moved to begin the attachment process as Monahan stuck his head into the small area.

"How's it goin' in here? Find anything?"

Asten looked over at the ex-cop. "Based upon the pubic bone, sacroiliac joint and spinal wear, we have a male between the ages of 35 and 45. Given the overall femur measurement, I estimate his height between six feet and six feet, two inches. The facial construction indicates a Caucasian, and the lack of tissue on the skeleton points to a time of death that's at least two or three years ago."

"What about evidence of homicide?"

"The skull indicates multiple trauma with a hard object, possibly wood."

"Wood? How can you tell?"

"I found what appears to be splinters embedded in the skull, but I won't know until I remove some and examine them under a microscope."

"Wanna hazard a mode of death before you're finished?"

"Head trauma."

"Homicide."

Asten nodded. "Homicide."

Monahan heaved a sigh. "And just how are we gonna tie that to Anthony Vandano?"

Asten shook his head. "I don't know, Monahan. If we can establish the victim's identity, and link that person to Vandano..."

"Yeah, then we need a motive, opportunity and an eye witness or two might be helpful, along with a murder weapon," Monahan said sarcastically.

"We're just starting, Monahan. This is going to take awhile." Monahan nodded, and Asten's brow crinkled. "How's Quincy holding up?"

"He's been asleep this whole time."

"Good. If he stirs, or shows any sign of discomfort, let me know."

"I will."

Monahan backed out of the area, and Asten turned to Fujiyama. "How's the assembly?"

"I think we're missing a few fingers, some teeth and maybe a rib or two."

"If we have enough teeth, we might be able to establish an identity through dental records."

"Maybe," Sam said, "but there's so much deterioration, I don't think it will be easy. Now that you've narrowed down the time of death, Sgt. Brill might be able to compile a list of missing persons."

"How's he going to access those records?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know, but he said he could."

"Fine, then go tell him we're looking for a white male between the ages of 35 and 45 who was reported missing two or three years ago."

"Okay, Dr. Asten."

Sam left the area, and Asten looked at the skull through the magnifying glasses. He picked up some tweezers and a specimen tube. He yanked a few splinters from the skull and put them into the tube. He capped it and set it on the small side table. Once again he studied the skull through a magnifier and frowned. Using the tweezers again, he extracted what appeared to be a chunk of wood with writing on it, embedded deeply in the back of the skull. Asten put the specimen in another tube, capped it and put it on the table. He continued to examine the skull, finding several other older fractures and possible identifying marks. He heard Fujiyama walk in behind him.

"Sam, I'm going to need you to do some research work."

"Anything that gets us closer to an answer, Dr. Asten..."

* * *

Danny finished putting away the groceries and taking a beer with him, went into the living room and sat down. Brill was talking on the phone.

"Listen Walt, I need you to run a missing persons on a white male, 35-45 years old, reported missing two or three years ago." Brill shook his head. "No, Walt, I don't have anything more than that... yeah, yeah, I know it's gonna be tough. Walt, I need your help with this." Brill waited for Walt to finish complaining then said, "Start with the Las Vegas area, then try New York following that. Yeah, I want all possibilities...okay, thanks." Brill hung up the phone and looked over at Tovo. "You bought beer?"

Danny shrugged. "I figured we needed somethin' to keep the natives from becoming restless."

Brill grinned. "I see what you mean."

"Want one?"

"Not right now, Danny," Brill answered, "I have a lot of work to do first."

"Asten made some progress on those bones already?"

"Very preliminary, but yeah, he's given me a little to go on."

"That's better than the alternative..."

* * *

Sequana leaned his hands down on the arms of the chair, closing in on the pilot sitting there. "I want all of it, Mr. Thompson."

"I've already told you...I set the chopper down at the base of Clark Mountain. They took a car after that; they didn't tell me where they were going, and I didn't ask."

"Mr. Thompson, you're a pilot with the San Diego Police Department."

"Yes."

"Why were you flying for the LAPD?"

"I wasn't flying for the LAPD. I told you this was a private charter. I fly private charters when I'm off duty, it brings in a little extra cash for my kid's tuition, and it ain't illegal!"

"Who contacted you?"

"I don't know exactly who it was that I talked to on the phone. I didn't ask the guy for his ID. He told me where I needed to fly and I told him how much it was gonna be."

"How were you paid?"

"In cash when we landed at Clark Mountain. Look, I don't know what this is all about, and I don't care. I flew a private charter. I logged the flight plan as required by the FAA, and I obeyed all regulations applicable to the flight. Beyond that, Agent Sequana, I don't need to do anything."

"So if I told you that you transported a couple of drug mules, in violation of federal law, what would you say then?"

"You expect me to believe that those two guys were carryin' drugs? From the County Morgue building? You're trying to bluff me..."

Sequana rolled his eyes. "Thompson, I'm out of time and patience. You'd better tell me where those two guys were headed or I'll see that you never fly so much as a paper airplane in this state or any other."

* * *

Sam hung up the phone once more, scribbling what he had learned on a yellow pad. He glanced over at Asten, who looked completely drained.

"Dr. Asten?"

"Yes, Sam?"

"Are you okay?"

Asten nodded. "I'm fine, just tired. What did you find out?"

"The logo you found on the wood chip, H&B in block letters, is the early logo of the Hillerich and Bradsby company; we know them as the Louisville Slugger company."

"Baseball bats? You're telling me the murder weapon was a baseball bat?" Sam nodded and Asten sighed. "Great, so anybody with a Louisville Slugger could have killed the guy."

Sam smiled. "Not exactly. By the size of the dents and breaks in the skull, you estimated that the wooden item used weighed between 40 and 50 ounces. According to the expert I spoke with, that narrows down the field considerably. First, H&B in block letters was a logo only used by the company prior to 1918--"

"--1918? Sam--"

"--Dr. Asten, this is going somewhere, believe me. There were only two models of bats made at that weight in the years of 1917 and 1918, and they were both custom built."

"Custom built?"

Sam smiled bigger. "Uh-huh. One of the bats was a 36 inch, 42 ounce slugger, model R-43, made for Babe Ruth."

"Babe Ruth? How in the hell do you know that?"

"After speaking with the Sports Memorabilia owner and establishing that the bat is most likely a collector's item, I called the Louisville Slugger Museum, and they supplied the possibilities."

"Babe Ruth is one...who's the other one?"

"Edd Roush used a Hillerich and Bradsby Slugger weighing 48 ounces in the 1919 World Series; he had several bats custom made in 1918 by the company."

"And it couldn't be any other bat?" Asten asked dubiously.

"Not if it carries that logo, and weighs what you estimate, no."

Asten smiled tiredly. "Good work, Sam." He looked over at Brill. "How's your search coming, Sergeant?"

"With the new information you added, I should have a short list pretty soon."

Sam glanced over at Asten. "What new information?"

"Further examination of the skull revealed a fracture above the right eye and upper jaw bone that were sustained at least four years before death. There was also a severely deviated nasal septum which presented evidence of a chronic nasal infection. If our victim sought medical help for any of these conditions we can use x-rays to give us a positive match."

Sam shook his head smiling. "Dr. Asten, I think you've out-Quincied Quincy!"

"I'll uh, take that as a compliment."

"I couldn't have meant it any other way, Dr. Asten," Sam said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Glowering slightly, Asten said, "Uh-huh. Let's have a chat with Monahan..."

* * *

Monahan looked up from his chair when Sam and Asten walked into the bedroom.

"How's he doing, Monahan?" Asten asked.

"He hasn't stirred."

Asten sat down on the edge of the bed and checked Quincy's pulse. He reached for his black bag on the nightstand, pulled out the stethoscope and listened to his patient's heart. The doctor laid a soft hand on Quincy's forehead and then his cheek. Asten reached over and wrung out the washcloth sitting in the basin of cold water, and placed it on Quincy's brow.

"Dr. Asten? Is he all right?" Sam asked.

"His pulse and heart are steady, Sam, he's just a little warm. I want to keep him as comfortable as possible. I'd like you to add another 10cc's of amoxicillin to the IV drip."

"You're worried," Monahan said flatly.

"No, no," Asten lied, "the antibiotic is a precaution."

But Sam knew better. "Dr. Asten," he said laying a hand on the man's shoulder, "how bad is it?"

Asten's chin dropped toward his chest. "He's just so weak...If we don't keep on top of the infection, we could lose him."

Sam pat the director's shoulder. "I'll get the amoxicillin."

Asten nodded and switched out the cold compress, gently wiping down Quincy's face with the cool one, again leaving it on the man's brow. He looked over at Monahan, and extended his hand to check the man's bandaged wound, but Monahan jerked his head out of reach.

"Monahan," Asten scolded, "that injury needs to be monitored."

"I'm okay, Asten." He stared hard into the dark brown eyes then tactlessly changed the subject, "What did the bones tell you?"

"A lot. We're pretty sure that the murder weapon was a baseball bat."

"That's gonna be hard to pin down given how many of them are out there in the world..."

"No, we got lucky. This particular bat is a collector's item worth a lot of money."

"How in the hell could you possibly know that?"

"The chip had a logo on it. The bat was either built for Babe Ruth or Edd Roush in 1918."

"You got all that from a wood chip?" Asten stared at Monahan, and the ex-cop added, "I think Quincy's overly active imagination has been a bad influence on you, Asten, you know that?"

"Monahan," Asten growled, "let's just keep to the business at hand.

"Which is?"

"Anthony Vandano. Do you suppose he collects baseball memorabilia?"

Monahan shrugged. "How the hell should I know? Al Capone did, but then again, so did my father..."

Asten felt the warm hand grip his wrist before he heard the raspy voice. "What kind of wood was it?"

"Quincy," Asten shushed, "go back to sleep."

"What kind of wood?"

"I...I don't know. What difference does that make?"

Quincy licked his chapped lips and Asten reached for the glass of water on the table. He lifted the coroner's head and poured some of the cool liquid into his mouth.

"Roush's bats were usually made from pine," Quincy whispered, "but Ruth's were white ash in that era...it was an early version of the R-43, his signature bat."

Monahan shook his head. "We might have known Quincy would be up to speed on this kind of thing."

Asten took Quincy's hand in between his own and rubbed it. "Rest now, Quincy. You need to sleep."

The coroner nodded slightly and dropped off as Sam walked in, carrying a syringe loaded with amoxicillin which he injected into the IV drip.

"Isn't there anything else we can do for him?" The technician asked.

"Yes," Asten said, "we can get to the bottom of what that skeleton is trying to tell us, just the way Quincy would." He looked up at Fujiyama then. "Let's establish what kind of wood that chip is made from."

"I'm just an amateur botanist, Dr. Asten," Sam said, "I can't tell you what kind of wood it is."

"Then call a botanist Sam, and find out how to see the difference between white ash and pine under a microscope."

Fujiyama looked doubtful, but said, "If you say so..."

Sam walked out and Monahan stood, patting Asten on the shoulder. "You look like you could stand some sleep. Why don't you knock off in this chair for awhile and keep Quincy company?"

Asten glared up at the man. "Need I remind you that you're not exactly in the pink, lieutenant?"

Monahan shrugged. "Maybe not, but I'm enough recovered that I can help in the investigation of this homicide from a chair in the living room. You've had the lion's share, Asten, and no offense, but it's beginning to show a little. Get some sleep."

Asten nodded and moved to the chair by the bed as Monahan left the room. The doctor looked at the pale face of his patient, and once again took the man's hand in his own.

"I know you're tired, Quincy, but you keep fighting. You have to keep fighting."

* * *

Standing in the parking lot of the Circle K in Victorville, Rocky addressed his small army of men who had driven in from Las Vegas.

"You all know what Mr. Vandano wants here, so we're gonna ride out there, park the cars about a quarter of a mile away and wait for dark. Then we're gonna descend on those cops like a swarm of flies on shit. I don't want nothin' left when we're through, capice?" The men nodded, and Rocky took a last drag on his cigarette tossing it to the ground. "Okay then, let's go. And remember, Mr. Vandano don't like no mess-ups."

The men got into their cars, and with Rocky leading the way, they headed toward the small white house in the desert, and the six targets unaware of their impending entrapment.


	24. Chapter 24

Sam walked into the living room from the dining room area serving as a lab and stopped where Monahan was sitting on the couch. "White ash. The chip is white ash."

Monahan stared at Fujiyama. "Are you tellin' me the murder weapon was a bat used by Babe Ruth in 1918?"

Sam nodded. "That's about the size of it, lieutenant."

Monahan looked over at Brill. "Get on the horn. Let's see if Mr. Vandano has purchased a Babe Ruth bat sometime in the past ten years or so."

The sergeant made a face. "That could be a tough find, lieutenant."

"I didn't say it would be easy, Brill, but if we're gonna tie this piece of salami to the dead body, we gotta start somewhere. You have any luck with the identity of the victim?"

"Walter's working on it. He's got a short list for missing persons in the Las Vegas area for the past two and three years, all fitting the search parameters. He's now running down medical records to try and ascertain if any from the lists were treated for the problems Dr. Asten described."

Monahan smiled. "Good work, Brill. If you're concentrating on Vegas, try some of the auction houses in the area, there are several."

"You got it, lieutenant."

Monahan turned his gaze upon Danny then, who was moping in the chair nearby. "Hey, Danny, how about something to eat? I don't know about anybody else, but I'm starved..."

Tovo pursed his lips. "I was wondering when one of you was going to remember that I was here."

Sam smiled at him. "You need a sous chef, Danny?"

"You volunteering, Charlie Chan?"

"Hey, Charlie Chan was Chinese, Danny, I'm Japanese!"

"Bonsai!" Danny exclaimed. "Come on, I can use an extra pair of hands..."

Tovo and Fujiyama left the room as Brill picked up the phone to place a call. Monahan let out a slow sigh; he felt tired, and leaned his head back against the couch cushion, momentarily closing his eyes. Asten had been right; he wasn't recovered from losing the blood he had given to Quincy. And with the thought of the coroner fighting against a post-op infection, his mind filled with worry as he fell into a troubled sleep.

* * *

The three cars pulled off to the side of the road about a quarter mile away from the small white house, and silently waited. Rocky glanced at his watch: if the almanac had been right, night would fall in 24 minutes, and there would be no moon to illuminate the desert. It would take them about five minutes to walk up the road to the house and maybe ten minutes to subdue the unsuspecting men inside. While he knew they would have some handguns and ammo, they were certainly not prepared for the arsenal that Vandano's men were carrying with them. That, and gun for gun, the men were hopelessly outnumbered. If he played his cards right, the entire nasty episode could be behind him in less than an hour. He glanced over at Mickey, who was playing with his shoelace; it wouldn't be over soon enough.

* * *

The soft moans caused Asten to jolt awake. He leaned forward in his chair, and quickly lay a fresh compress over Quincy's brow. The fever was intensifying, and with it, Quincy's misery and Asten's concern. He shifted to the edge of the bed, pulled the covers down to Quincy's waist, and began to gently remove the dressing. Quincy groaned in pain as Asten examined the swollen area.

"Shhh, it's all right, Quincy," Asten said softly.

The doctor cleaned the area with surgical disinfectant and the coroner cried out, trying to shove Asten's hands away, but the director subdued his patient gently and finished cleaning the wound. Then he affixed a new dressing and picked up the washcloth sitting in the basin of cold water, wringing it out. He carefully wiped Quincy's chest and neck with it, trying to cool him down, then tossed it back into the bowl and covered his friend with the blanket. Asten glanced at his watch, and decided he could give his patient a little morphine to ease him. Bob filled a syringe and injected it into Quincy's IV. After a few minutes, the coroner's breathing calmed slightly, and his body relaxed a little.

But the similarity to the final days of his father's illness, gripped Bob hard in the gut, and he had to swallow down the emotion that had risen in his throat. Quincy had sensed it and called him on it earlier, and although he'd denied it, the coroner had been right. For as much as Asten pretended he was over the toll of taking care of his father in the last months of his life, and even for as much as he wanted to believe it, he was lying to himself. Quincy had been right: he had never forgiven himself for not being able to save his father from the pain and agony that were his at the end. It was the reason that Robert J. Asten could no longer bear to handle patients - not dead ones, and certainly not live ones. The inability to cope with human pain and suffering had driven Asten to administration and the relative safety of a desk. Occasionally he had to lend a hand in the lab, but seldom did he perform autopsies, and even more rarely did he attend to a live patient. Yet in the past week he had been thrown into the ring without a safety net: two autopsies and a fairly complicated surgery had been his lot, and Bob didn't know how much longer he'd be able to sit by Quincy's bedside before his hands began to shake and his nausea turned to vomiting.

He felt the warm hand caress his face, wiping away the tears that had streamed down his cheeks. "Bob," Quincy said weakly, "please don't torture yourself."

"I couldn't save him," Asten said softly, his voice shaking with sadness, "what if I can't save--"

But Asten cut himself off when he realized what he was about to say and to whom. The thick hand on his face continued to calmly caress his cheek.

"You've brought me this far, don't count me out yet." Quincy swallowed hard, his throat sore and dry from the infection that was raging through him. "You're a good doctor, Bob, and I'm counting on you."

"You didn't always think so on either account, Quincy."

The medical examiner's hand dropped from Asten's face to hold the man's hand tightly in his own. "That's not true. You just forgot what being a doctor is all about because you've been behind a desk for so long. When you lost your dad, you also lost a piece of yourself, and with it, your confidence." Quincy squeezed the hand in his hard. "But I haven't lost confidence in you. You'll see..."

The strain of the conversation caught up with him, and Quincy closed his eyes in exhaustion. And Dr. Robert J. Asten held tightly onto his friend's hand, and wept.

* * *

It was dusk when the helicopters took off from the roof of the Federal Building on Wilshire. It had taken far longer than Sequana had anticipated to break through the pilot's reserve, finally convincing him it was for the good of everyone that he tell them where Asten and Fujiyama had gone. Once he had described the route to them, the little ferret Larousse had expertly used the FBI computer system to search through housing records, discovering that Monahan had recently inherited a house just outside of Victorville. Damn the man for being so slow in transferring the title into his name; if it hadn't been for Larousse, they probably wouldn't have found them very quickly even with the pilot's description.

He looked at his watch: with any luck they'd be there shortly after nightfall. And Sequana couldn't wait to bust every last one of them for interring with a federal investigation. He knew his ass was in a sling with his superiors, but before he was recalled to Quantico, he was damned well going to have company in the take down. Donovan and his local bozos were going to pay for their interference, and for allowing Anthony Vandano to walk away free as a bird. He shook his head: he even wanted to take it out of Quincy's hide because the man failed to convince Vandano that he was Michael. He'd think of something to do to the medical examiner, to say nothing of his boss, technician and that restauranteur, Tovo. Each of them had been responsible for at least five points of his elevated blood pressure. And the clock was ticking...

* * *

Night had fallen, and Vandano's men were quietly making their way toward the house, its soft yellow light lending a silky glow to the desert floor. Rocky waited for all ten of them to get into position, and then he closed in behind one of the rental cars parked out front.

"Hey...youse in the house... I'm gonna give ya one chance and one only to come outta there with your hands up, and in exchange we'll make it real easy on youse."

* * *

Monahan started awake at the noise from outside, and both he and Brill grabbed their weapons, and turned out the lights as they moved toward the windows. They peered outside into the dark.

"See anything, Brill?"

"No lieutenant, it's just as pitch black from my window as it is from yours."

"Danny, Sam," Monahan whispered loudly, "turn out the lights in there and come out here, stay low to the ground." The two men crouched low and came toward Monahan. "Brill, give Danny a piece."

Brill handed Tovo a 9mm handgun and Danny stared at him. "What the hell am I supposed to do with this?"

"Unless I'm wrong," Monahan said, "we're gonna need all the firepower we can get very shortly. Sam," he said to Fujiyama, "go into the bedroom, turn out any lights that are on, make sure all the windows are closed and then get both Asten and Quincy out here."

"But lieutenant," Sam argued, "we can't move Quincy, it's too dangerous."

"Sam, I want everyone here in this room, on the floor, where I can protect you. Dangerous is going to be anywhere else in this house, no just do as I say, and close all the doors behind you."

Sam gulped hard but did as Monahan asked just as the first wave of bullets peppered through the windows of the house, smashing into objects in the living room. The two ex-cops and Tovo fired back, but couldn't see the targets in the dark.

"I'd love to see what it is I'm shootin' at," Danny said.

"Be judicious, we don't have that much ammo, and I'm bettin' that our friends out there have a helluva lot more. Shoot only when you have to, in order to keep them guessing."

"Lieutenant," Brill whispered to Monahan, "we're probably outnumbered all the way down the line."

"I know that," Monahan snapped, "just do like I tell you. We're buying time."

"For what?"

"For me to think of some way outta this mess, that's what."

Outside, Vandano's men fired a large barrage of bullets at the house, blowing out all of the windows, sending hot lead into the wood frame and stucco of the building. Monahan and Brill once again returned fire, but only with a limited spread.

"I don't got a good feeling here," Danny muttered.

"Just hang tight, Danny," Monahan said, "I need you to stay with me on this."

* * *

Asten jerked awake at the sound of gunfire and a second later, Sam was in the room, panic contorting his normally refined features.

"Dr. Asten! Vandano's men are outside, shooting at us!"

"I can hear that, Sam. Where's Monahan?"

"He, Brill and Danny are in the living room by the windows, shooting back at them. He wants us to check the windows, cut the lights and bring Quincy out into the other room."

"Is he nuts? We can't move Quincy!"

"I told him that, but he said he wants us all in the same room."

"It sounds like he's planning on a Vandano siege."

"Well, it is their party, I doubt they showed up without a lot of men and a lot of ammo."

"Good point. Let's take care of the windows, lights and doors in the back of the house first. Then we'll try and move Quincy."

The two men went through the bathroom, secured the window, then into the second bedroom, doing the same. They closed the doors and then headed toward the main room again. Sam picked up Asten's bag, and several blankets. Asten pulled the covers off Quincy, tucked the IV into the waistband of the coroner's pants, and gently shook the man awake.

"Quincy, I'm sorry, but I'm going to need your help."

He forced his eyes open through the fuzz that clouded his brain. "What's going on?"

"We've got company outside, Quince," Sam answered, "and they're not too friendly."

"I need to move you, Quincy," Asten explained, "and I need you to try and help me."

"Bob...I can't..."

"You've got to try, Quincy. I know it's going to hurt like hell, but there isn't any choice."

Asten put his arms around the coroner's upper body and hoisted him into a sitting position, causing Quincy to cry out in pain. He shoved the man's legs over the edge of the bed and then tried to pull him up, but Quincy had no strength for it, and holding his abdomen, screamed in agony. And the sound of the man's misery caused Asten to freeze.

"Dr. Asten?" Sam's gentle voice questioned. "Dr. Asten, what is it?"

Asten forced himself to breathe again, and shook his head. "Nothing..."

With no choices available, he bent down and flung Quincy over his shoulder, the coroner groaning in torment with the move. The two men quickly moved out to the living room, Sam closing the final door behind them. As gently as he could, Asten laid Quincy down on the floor, and Sam covered him with the blankets. Bob pulled a pillow from the couch and put it under the coroner's head, although he doubted Quincy could feel anything but the pain in his belly. The medical examiner's tense cries struck Asten in the heart as surely as any weapon could have, and he took Quincy's hand in his.

Monahan's voice raised above the sound of gunfire. "Sam! Push the desk in front of the door leading to the back of the house. I don't want any company in here without ample warning!"

"Yes lieutenant!"

Brill leaned toward Monahan. "This is bad, lieutenant..."

Monahan glared at the man for stating the obvious. "No kidding, Brill."

"Lieutenant," Danny said, "don't you have anything bigger than these little handguns?"

Under other circumstances, Monahan would have been amused at Tovo's sudden prowess with a gun, but given their predicament, he wasn't. "I didn't bring any SWAT gear with me, Danny, I wasn't exactly planning on this kind of party." Then he remembered. "Hey! Brill, get into the kitchen, look under the sink. My uncle used to keep a double barrel in there with a box of ammo!"

Brill nodded and crouching low, ran into the kitchen. He looked in the cupboard under the sink and sure enough, a double barrel Winchester was there next to a box of cartridges. He grabbed them and made his way back into the living room. He handed both items to Monahan, who quickly opened the weapon and loaded it.

"Lieutenant?"

"What?"

"Are you sure it shoots? I mean it doesn't look like it's been fired or cleaned in a dozen years."

"Beggars can't be choosers, Brill, just stand clear when I fire it..."

Monahan stood by the window, aimed toward the car that he was fairly certain one of them was hiding behind and he pulled both triggers, simultaneously firing both barrels. But the recoil sent the butt of the shotgun into his shoulder, and Monahan flew backward to the floor, cracking his head painfully against the wood. Brill bent over him, gently picking his upper body up.

"Lieutenant? You all right?"

"Yeah," Monahan said unsteadily, "that sure packed a helluva wallop."

"You shouldn't have fired both barrels like that."

"I meant the floor connecting with my head, Brill."

"Oh."

"Hey, do you hear any gunfire?" Monahan asked.

"No."

"Well then, I got what I wanted - their attention."

Brill helped Monahan to his feet, and the two ex-cops hovered by one of the windows.

"Now that I have your attention," Monahan yelled out the window, "What in the hell do you want?"

Rocky yelled back, "I thought I made it clear. I want you outta there."

"Fat chance," Monahan responded.

"Don't you make me come in there, cop, if you do, it's gonna be a lot worse for you."

"If you're gonna kill us either way, I'm not gonna make it easy for you. And I promise you, before it's over, I'm gonna cut a few of your boys in half with this shotgun."

In response, Vandano's men once again began firing at the house and its occupants. Monahan and Brill ducked, and Danny remained hidden behind the next window over. Crouching down, Sam ran toward Monahan.

"You have another gun?"

Monahan handed Fujiyama his own service revolver. "You ever shoot one of these, son?"

"No. I just point and pull the trigger, right?"

"That's right," Monahan said picking up the double barrel. "Okay fellas, let 'em have it!"

The four men fired into the dark abyss outside, wondering if they'd be lucky enough to hit anything. Asten sat on the floor up against the couch, cradling Quincy's head in his lap. He gently massaged the coroner's neck with his hands, trying to keep him still.

"Stay calm, Quincy. I know you're hurting, but try and take slow, deep breaths."

"It sounds like World War III out there, Asten..."

"Yes, it does. But there's nothing you can do to help, so just lie still."

Asten watched as Monahan reloaded the barrels and fired again, still being thrown off balance by the recoil. Brill, Danny and Sam fired their weapons intermittently, enough to keep the men outside at bay, but not enough to waste ammunition frivolously. And in the middle of the all out war being waged in the California desert, Asten's thoughts turned to Melissa, just as they had when he had found himself a newlywed soldier, ducking into a foxhole in Korea. He closed his eyes momentarily, silently praying that he would see her again, but when Quincy groaned in distress, Asten looked down into the disquieted gray eyes. The doctor continued to softly rub his patient's neck.

"You're tensing up and it's making the pain worse, Quincy."

"We're in the middle of a gunfight and you don't want me to tense up?" Quincy responded through gritted teeth.

"Close your eyes." When Quincy didn't obey, Asten sternly repeated, "Close your eyes, doctor." The gray eyes slowly closed, and Bob forced his voice to sound calm, despite the fact that his heart was pounding in his throat. "I want you to concentrate on the movements of my hands on your neck. Just focus on that and take even breaths."

Hearing the calm confidence in Asten's voice, Quincy did as he was told and fixated on the soft hands soothingly manipulating the muscles in his neck, and after a few minutes he felt some of the pain dissipate, and he let out a large sigh of air that he hadn't even realized he'd been holding.

"That's it," Asten's gentle voice said, "don't pay attention to anything else, just relax."

And in the eye of the storm, with bullets flying and gun nozzles flashing, Quincy was lulled to sleep by the composure of a man he often read as an adversary, but truly knew as a friend.


	25. Chapter 25

As the helicopters approached Victorville, Sequana spotted the nozzle flashes lighting up the dark desert floor.

"Holy shit! What in the hell is going on down there?"

Louie observed out of his side of the chopper. "Damn, Rick, it looks like World War III down there."

The two men looked at each other and Sequana said, "Vandano. Damnit..." He turned to the pilot. "I want you to head in low, with the spotlight, and box them in." He grabbed the handset for communications and pressed the black button. "Attention forest units ground and air, this is little red riding hood, the big bad wolf has shown up uninvited to grandma's house; all units close in immediately. Approach with caution, but allow no slip-ups, repeat, allow no free passes." He slapped the mike back into its hook and glanced at Fox. "Could anything else possibly go wrong?"

Rick shrugged. "Look at the bright side, Rick, Vandano's people have screwed up, big. We've got them in a shoot-out with LA County officers."

"Yeah, and you and I both know that Vandano's not down there, we've still got nothin' on him."

Fox looked again at the firepower display below. "Damn, they're hittin' those guys with some serious juice, I hope the hell they're still alive..."

"Need I remind you that the men in the house are fugitives, Louie?"

"No Rick, you don't need to remind me. But we both know they're really the good guys who got caught out trying to help a friend? Would either of us have done any differently?"

* * *

Sam crouched, waiting for the barrage of bullets to stop before returning fire. Then he heard it.

"Hey," he said, "Listen!" But Monahan and Brill were too busy. "Choppers! I hear choppers!"

Monahan looked over at Fujiyama as if he had lost it. "Are you nuts? There ain't no helicopters out there."

"Lieutenant, I hear them!"

"No offense Sam, but how in the hell would you know?" Danny asked.

"I was attached to a MASH unit in Vietnam. I know the sound."

"You served in 'Nam? How could you have served and never shot a gun?"

"I was a company clerk, never had any reason to play with guns, I typed requisitions and ran litters for the hospital."

And then Monahan heard it. "Well I'll be damned! He's right! And it's not one chopper, but several!"

"I never thought I'd be happy to see the FBI show up here," Brill said.

"Me neither, Brill," Monahan agreed, "but in this case, it's fine with me." Monahan looked over at Asten, who was not joining in the jubilation of being saved by the feds. "Asten? Didn't you hear? It's the FBI!"

"Yeah," Asten said quietly, "I heard."

And the possibilities of Asten's sad countenance landed in Monahan's gut. "Is Quincy--?"

"--No," Asten answered quickly, "but he's bad, Monahan, really bad."

The helicopters landed outside as the ground units pulled in, and Monahan stood, moving quickly over to where Asten was holding Quincy on the floor. "Is he gonna make it, Asten?"

The doctor swallowed back the moisture forming in his eyes. "I don't know, Frank. He's bleeding again into his belly, and the infection's taken a turn for the worse. I shouldn't have moved him."

Monahan squeezed Asten's shoulder. "This wasn't your fault, Bob, Quincy'd be the first one to tell you that. If we get him to a hospital fast, will that make a difference?"

Asten's dark eyes pierced Monahan with hope. "It might, but how the hell--"

"--You leave it to me." Monahan set the shotgun down and ran outside, just as Sequana was approaching.

"Hold it right there, Monahan," the federal agent called, "you're under arrest."

"You can arrest me later," Monahan snarled, still approaching the agent. "Quincy's in bad shape in there, and we need to get him to a hospital, now. I want a helicopter."

"Why you little--you've got some nerve, you know that, Monahan?" Sequana studied the fear in the light blue eyes, and the tense set of the ex-cop's jaw, and after what Louie had said to him, he softened. "Okay," he said quietly, "let's load him on my chopper." Monahan started back into the house, and Sequana growled, "Where are you going? You're still under arrest!"

"Don't worry, Sequana," Monahan yelled over his shoulder heading toward the house, "I'll be in your custody; we'll all be in your custsody."

* * *

The helicopter took off with Quincy lying across Monahan and Asten's laps in the back seats of the bird. Asten cradled the coroner's head, brushing a soft hand over his fevered brow. He could feel Monahan's eyes intensely staring at him and finally, he met them.

"I don't know," he said, "it could go either way."

Monahan looked down then, swallowing his worry as best he could.

"Fujiyama told me you guys autopsied the bones," Sequana said to the two men. "What did you find?"

"A lot," Asten said flatly, "we'll get you your man, Sequana, but it's probably going to cost us ours."

Sequana could feel the anguish coming from behind him and he sighed. "I'm sorry about Quincy, I truly am; we just didn't see any other way."

"Did you even try?" Asten snarled. "Or were you just playing the numbers game?"

Monahan's hand gently reached out to squeeze Asten's forearm. "Settle down, Bob," he whispered.

"I will not settle down, lieutenant," Asten grunted, "Quincy told you, Sequana, he told you he could pin the murder of the victim found at the boat on Vandano; he was sure of it. But you ignored him. And now he's lying here and I don't know if we can save him--"

Asten's voice choked off and Monahan realized the man was overwrought with guilt. He reached a hand over and gently squeezed Asten's neck.

"Sequana," Monahan said, "Sam Fujiyama and Sgt. Brill are bringing the bones and some equipment to the hospital with us, right?"

"Yes."

"Then we'll have a chance to complete the work that was started."

"What's your point, Monahan?"

"My point, Special Agent Sequana, is that we can nail this guy for you, if you give us a chance."

Sequana sighed. "Why is it I have a feeling this is gonna cost me..."

* * *

Sequana paced the length of the basement lab at Las Vegas Memorial, impatiently waiting for Brill to finish his phone call. Sam was quietly finishing the assembly of the victim's bones and Danny was leaning against a counter, sipping from a mug of coffee. Brill hung up the receiver and Sequana practically jumped on him.

"Well?"

"Walter Workman's on his way here now. He has the x-rays and medical records of five people who were reported missing during the time span in question, all of them are white males between the ages 35 and 45, all of them between six feet and six feet two inches tall. What about your guy?"

"Agent Larousse is tracking the sports auction records you asked for, I expect to hear from him within the hour." Danny set his mug down then and headed for the door. "Where are you going, Mr. Tovo?"

"To check on Quincy. Is that a problem?"

"I'd prefer you stay here."

"Where'm I gonna go?" Danny asked. "You've got this joint locked up tighter than a rat-a-tat drum on Christmas eve..."

"Fine."

"Danny," Sam interjected, "can you let us know what's going on up there?"

"Sure Sam, sure."

* * *

Asten sat stoically in a chair by the bed while Monahan paced at the foot of it, the only sound in the room was the respirator that was pushing air in and out of Quincy's lungs. The door opened and Melissa Asten walked in.

"Bob..." She ran to him as he stood, and threw her arms around him. "Oh Bob, thank God you're all right." Without a word Asten pressed into the crook of her neck, seeking comfort that couldn't be found. "Honey? Honey, what's wrong? Is it Quincy?"

Asten broke away from her then. "I don't know if we got him here in time."

She ran a soft hand down the side of his cheek. "You look exhausted, Bob, why don't you come lie down for awhile in the lounge, hmmm?"

"No. I don't want to leave him." He glanced over at Monahan. "But if you want to get a little sleep, lieutenant--"

"--No, no, Asten. I'm not leavin' either."

Bob sat back down in the chair and Melissa stood behind him, gently rubbing his shoulders. Monahan resumed his pacing, and once again the only sound in the room was the respirator bellows keeping Quincy alive.

* * *

"Are you sure, Larousse? I mean absolutely positive?" Sequana listened to the voice on the other end of the phone and then said, "Fine. Stand by, I'll call you if we need something further."

He returned the receiver to the cradle and looked up at Brill. "Anthony Vandano has purchased no baseball bat of Babe Ruth or anyone else in the past ten years."

"But that can't be," Sam said, "the wood chip is white ash, and the information we have indicates that a bat with that logo made out of that wood, weighing between 40 and 50 ounces could only have been Babe Ruth's."

"I'm not arguing that the murder weapon was Babe Ruth's bat, Fujiyama, just that Vandano hasn't bought any such item at auction."

"What if it was a private transaction?" Brill asked.

"Then we can't access such a record."

"No," Sam said, "according to the sports memorabilia experts, bats like these are always sold at public auction because it brings in more money. There's got to be a record. Maybe he bought it before ten years ago..."

Sequana pursed his lips, sighing. "Fine, we'll go back as far as we can then and see what comes, but I'm warning you, if you fellas don't deliver on Vandano, I'm throwing the book at every last one of you, and that includes Quincy."

"If he makes it," Sam said quietly.

Sequana felt the weight of the statement land in the pit of his stomach, and without another word, he picked up the phone to call the office and put the ferret back on the chase.

* * *

The phone in Quincy's room rang and Tovo picked it up. "Yeah?" He listened for a moment, then said, "Yeah, sure Sam, hang on...Asten? Sam wants a word."

Danny handed Asten the receiver and the director held it to his ear. "Yes Sam?" He waited, then said, "We'll come right down, thanks." Asten hung up the phone and turned to Monahan. "Brill's man Walter showed up with the x-rays. They want the two of us down in the lab."

Monahan looked toward the bed. "Okay."

"Melissa, Danny, can you two stay here?"

"Sure we can, honey, don't worry."

"I just don't want him to be alone, you know, in case he wakes up."

Sensing Asten's deep concern, Danny pat his shoulder. "We'll both be right here, Dr. Asten, and if anything changes, we'll call you down there."

Asten nodded gratefully, then clasped an arm around Monahan's shoulder. "Come on..."

* * *

Working with the five sets of x-rays and medical records, Asten compared the information and pictures with the x-rays Sam had taken of the skull. He was immediately able to eliminate three of the missing persons, noting that the skull configurations and recorded injuries were not consistent with the skull of the victim from the boat. The final two were very close, and the tension in the room mounted as he continued to study them at length.

"Asten," Monahan prodded, "what are you doing?"

"We have to be sure beyond any doubt, Monahan," he answered.

Asten finally superimposed the images of the skulls over each other, and the second one was an exact match. He pulled his glasses from his face and let out a slow sigh.

"That's it, gentlemen. Our victim is Evan McGee."

"The pawn shop owner?" Sequana asked with disbelief.

"Yes."

"You're sure, Asten?" Monahan questioned.

"Yes, I'm positive. The skull x-rays are an exact match, there can be no doubt. The damage to his right eye socket and lower jaw were caused from a car accident three years ago. It also deviated his septum, causing a chronic nasal drip and the associated damage. You can see it clearly here on the x-rays. McGee's our man."

"Why in the hell would Vandano kill a stupid little pawn shop owner? Why would he take such a chance with such a small fish?"

"Because the guy had somethin' Vandano wanted," Monahan said.

"What?"

Monahan smiled. "A baseball bat. Call your boy Larousse, and tell him to check for Babe Ruth bats purchased by this guy Evan McGee and see what comes up."

Sequana stared at Monahan for a moment. "If you're right, lieutenant, that's a dandy piece of deduction..."

"Hardly deduction, son," Monahan said, "an educated guess is more like it. If this guy McGee went up against Vandano in an auction for a Babe Ruth bat, and McGee won, that might tick Vandano off to the point of killin' the guy. And he just might go after him personally."

"And kill him with his own bat," Sequana finished. The agent picked up the phone, dialing the number. "I hope the hell you're right, Monahan."

The ex-cop shrugged. "I might be." He looked over at Asten. "But I'd gladly trade bein' right about this for Quincy to pull through..."


	26. Chapter 26

Larousse sifted through the multiple pages of computer printouts, comparing the information, looking for the one transaction that might lead them to Anthony Vandano. But after five long hours, he had discovered nothing. Sequana paced the length of the small room at the FBI office in Las Vegas, looking on as the small researcher continued to pour over the documents.

"Well? Anything?"

Larousse shook his head. "Not yet, Mr. Sequana."

"Damn..." He picked up the receiver of a nearby phone and dialed a number, after a few rings, Louie answered, and Sequana said, "How are all of our boys?"

"Fine, Rick. Brill, Fujiyama and Tovo are spending the night in the local lock-up; I figured it'd be easier to keep track of them there."

"What about Asten and Monahan?"

"They're right here, in Quincy's room."

"Any change on that front?"

"I'm afraid not, Rick; the doc's still in pretty bad shape."

"Listen Louie, I'd feel better if you took Asten and Monahan over to the lock-up. I want them all together."

Fox sighed into the phone. "If that's the way you want it, Rick."

"Yeah, let's keep 'em under lock and key. If there's a change in Quincy's condition, well, then we can let them see him."

"Understood."

Sequana hung up the phone and glared at the ferret. "Larousse, if you're gonna find somethin' you need to find it sooner rather than later. You get me?"

Larousse looked up from the papers and frowned at Sequana over the rim of his glasses. "I get it, Agent Sequana...but I can't find what might not be here."

Sequana sighed heavily and ran a hand over his tired eyes; they really needed a break, and he hoped that one would appear soon.

* * *

Agent Fox closed the cell door, locking Asten and Monahan behind bars in the local jail.

"Is this really necessary?" Monahan complained. "It's not like the two of us are some kind of flight risk..."

"I'm sorry, Monahan, but this is the way Agent Sequana wants it, so this is the way it has to be."

Asten glared at the younger man. "There's no need to treat us like common criminals, Agent Fox."

Fox cocked an eyebrow at the doctor. "We're not, Asten; we're treating you like federal fugitives."

"Oh good grief," Asten muttered as he sat down on a bunk against the wall.

Fox left the corridor and Monahan said, "Cheer up, Asten, it could be worse."

"I honestly don't see how, lieutenant."

"The bones could have led us to a dead end, that's how. Sequana and his boys have some good, solid leads, so we're not done for quite yet..."

"We're not, but what about Quincy?"

Monahan walked over to Asten, laying a calm hand on the man's shoulder. "He's a lot tougher than you're givin' him credit for being, Asten. I've never known Quincy to walk away from a fight, have you?" Bob shook his head, and Monahan said, "He's gonna be okay, you have to believe that."

Asten shook his head in despair. "His blood counts are so low he's in respiratory distress; his body can't get enough blood to circulate to his vital organs, and they're shutting down one at a time. Eventually his heart and his brain will shut down too."

Monahan sat next to Asten on the bunk. "What're you sayin' Bob?"

"I don't think he's gonna make it," Asten whispered, "My God, Frank, we're gonna lose him."

And Monahan looked on in sad helplessness as Asten's normally calm composure dissolved into despondent tears. The ex-cop put an arm around him, reassuringly squeezing his shoulder.

"Let it go, Bob. Just let it go."

* * *

Sequana stared unbelievingly at Stan Donovan. "You've got to be kidding me. We've had every federal resource available trying to pin down an auction house or point of sale for that bat, and you're telling me that a bunch of local cops are gonna pull the answer out of their asses? What have you been smoking, captain?"

Donovan glared impatiently at Sequana. "Agent Sequana you're looking at all the major auction houses and events; I'm suggesting that we take a look at the black market and the smaller, almost unknown auctions."

"And you have a way to accomplish this, captain?"

"Yes, Sequana, I do, because I think a lot smaller than you do..."

* * *

Sequana stood at the back of the tiny room in the downtown Las Vegas police station, observing the petty crooks squirming in their seats. Donovan stood at the head of the room, next to the captain of the precinct, Harold Dennings, who spoke to the gathered crowd.

"Each of you owes me somethin'...some of you more than others. We're looking for an old baseball bat. We believe it was auctioned off on the blackmarket in the past three years, and we think the buyer was either Evan McGee or Anthony Vandano." He glared into the gathered crowd. "I want to know when, where, who and how much. And I want to know where the bat is now. Each of you was given a piece of paper and a pen when you walked in here. I want you to write down whatever you know about this bat, the auction and the people involved. It'll be anonymous, so nobody's gonna know who squealed. And let's be clear and upfront: if I don't get nothin' from you, life on the streets of Las Vegas is gonna be unbearable..."

* * *

Dennings unfolded the last paper and set it on the pile. "Well Stan, that's it. About half of them confirm that Evan McGee bought the bat in an underground auction three years ago, and that he bought it out from under Anthony Vandano. And miraculously, McGee turns up missing, and the bat's sitting in a display case in Vandano's bedroom at the Sands."

Donovan shook Dennings hand. "I can't thank you enough, Harold, I owe you one." He turned to Sequana. "That ought to be enough to obtain a search warrant, Sequana."

"You locals had better be right about this; one more screw-up and I'll be cleaning toilets back at Quantico..."

Donovan couldn't think of a better duty for Special Agent Rick Sequana, but he kept his mouth shut.

* * *

The door to Anthony Vandano's penthouse at the Sands burst open as several FBI agents along with Sequana and Donovan entered.

Sequana handed a paper to Vandano. "Federal search warrant, Vandano."

Vandano smiled. "So the feds is goin' on a scavenger hunt. Whatcha lookin' for, fed?"

"A baseball bat," Sequana said, "a very old baseball bat." He turned to his men. "Get to it, and leave nothing unturned, and I mean nothing."

Vandano laughed. "You takin' a sudden interest in the national pastime, Sequana?"

"In so far as it involves murder, Vandano."

"Murder? That's a good one!"

Louie entered the main room from the back bedroom, holding a baseball bat enclosed in a large evidence bag. "Got it, Rick!"

Vandano laughed again. "So I own a baseball bat. Lots of citizens own bats, who cares? So I collect baseball memorabilia. That ain't a crime. So what?"

"Ah, but this bat is special, Vandano. This bat was used by Babe Ruth to knock a few out of the park in 1918; and then it was used by you about 60 years later to kill Evan McGee." Sequana looked at the missing chunk of the bat's logo and he smiled. "You see this little missing piece of wood? If that matches the chip the coroner pulled from the skeleton of Evan McGee, and you can't produce a receipt for the purchase of this bat that is after the date of McGee's disappearance, you're in a lot of trouble, Vandano." He headed for the door and said, "Read him his rights, Louie..."

* * *

Monahan, Brill, Danny, Sam and Asten stood at the large counter in the basement of the downtown police headquarters in Las Vegas, each retrieving his personal effects. Donovan walked in and smiled at Monahan.

"You're looking a little worse for the ride, Frank."

Monahan glared at his captain. "You wouldn't look none better if you'd been on the ride with me, Stan."

"Probably not." He tossed a manilla envelope onto the counter. "I believe you and Sgt. Brill misplaced these items not too long ago."

Monahan opened the envelope and pulled out the shields and revolvers, looking sharply up at Donovan. "You sure this is kosher, Stan?"

Donovan smiled. "Yeah, it's sanctioned with our department. The federal charges have been dropped and other than explaining a bone heist at a Clark County morgue, you fellas are in the clear."

"Thanks Stan," Monahan said. "How's Quincy doin'?"

Donovan looked down. "I'm afraid there's been no change on that front." He glanced up at Asten then. "The attending wants to speak to you, Dr. Asten, something about extraordinary measures and Quincy's will..."

Asten nodded. "Yeah. I was expecting that..." He cleared his throat. "Shall we go, fellas?"

Together, the men left the precinct and headed for the hospital and one final, unpleasant task.

* * *

Swallowing hard, Asten signed the document and handed it back to Dr. Silverstein, who took it and observed the despair in the man's eyes.

"If you want, Dr. Asten, a member of our staff can execute this; you don't need to be the one to do it."

Asten shook his head. "No, Dr. Silverstein, thank you, but I do need to be the one to do it. It's the last thing I can do for him."

"I understand. I'll send Dr. Santos down with you as a witness."

"Thank you."

Silverstein watched Asten exit the room and shook his head sadly. It was one of the worst duties of hospital administrator, and no matter how many times he watched executors sign the final papers to end extraordinary life support, the agony in their eyes never got easier.

* * *

Asten opened the door to Quincy's room and silently walked in, aware of the eyes sharply focused upon him; but unaware of how to meet them. Bob swallowed hard: he hated being the one. Yet Quincy naming him as executor was perfectly logical and had not come as a surprise to him. None of them were ready to let Quincy go, and for a brief moment, the overwhelming rawness of the emotions in the room made Asten want to run for the door. Then he felt his wife's hand gently grip his, and he squeezed it looking for strength.

Finally he glanced up into the devastated faces of Quincy's closest friends.

"I've signed the papers, and Dr. Santos is going to witness the disconnection of the respirator on behalf of the hospital." He fought to keep his voice calm and devoid of emotion, but the velvety quality of his soft timbre told those who knew him that he was suffering tremendously from the burden of his responsibility. "If any of you wants to say good-bye, now's the time."

For a long moment, no one moved; then Melissa stepped forward and gripped Quincy's hand. She bent down and kissed his cheek. "I'll miss you, Quince, but don't worry, I'll take care of all the boys for you, that's a promise."

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Melissa turned away from the bed, and walked to the back of the room, leaning against the wall. Brill stepped up next.

He pat Quincy's hand gently. "Rest well, Quince, you've earned it. I'll miss you more than you know."

Brill quickly turned away and moved to stand next to Melissa.

Danny moved to stand on the side of the bed, and leaned down toward Quincy's ear, whispering. "Ti amo, il mio più caro amico." He brushed a soft hand over his friend's forehead, running his fingers through the salt and pepper strands of hair. "I don't know what I'll do without you, Quince..." Tovo's tears ran down his face, spilling onto Quincy's cheeks, and before a sob could ebb from him, he turned away and went to Melissa, who took him in her arms, gently holding him.

Sam walked up to the bed and took Quincy's hand in between both of his. "Why the hell did it have to turn out this way? Why couldn't you have just walked away when all this started?" When Quincy didn't answer, Sam felt his eyes sting with tears, longing to hear the gentle lilt of his friend's soft baritone once more. But knowing he'd never hear it again, Fujiyama kissed the hand he was holding, and returned it back to the bed, where it lifelessly lay on the blanket. "I love you, Quince, and I'll never forget you..."

The technician turned from the bed, unable to meet anyone's eyes, and he quietly walked to join the others leaning against the back wall.

Monahan swallowed hard and silently moved next to the bed. For a long moment he stared into the still face of his closest friend, and he tried to quell the overwhelming sadness that arose within him. With tears streaming down his face, he wordlessly leaned over and kissed Quincy on the forehead. As he straightened up to take a last look at the man who had become an integral part of all of their lives, a choked off sob of surrender escaped him: Quincy never grasped his own importance in the world, any more than he understood how much he was loved by his friends. And to Frank Monahan, those were the saddest facts of all. His insides shaking, he felt Asten's arms encompass him, and for a brief moment, he leaned into the embrace. Then he broke away, and unashamed of the tears in his eyes, went to join his friends at the back of the room.

Staring down at Quincy, Asten let out an emotional sigh of air, trying to gather the strength to do what had been asked. He glanced over at Santos, who nodded slightly, acknowledging that Asten could proceed at any time. Bob leaned down, and caressed his hand over Quincy's cheek as he pressed his forehead against the side of Quincy's face. Softly he whispered something in his dear friend's ear, and then slowly, deliberately, he reached over and pressed a button on the respirator. The machine immediately ceased to push air into Quincy's lungs, the bellows stopping in mid-motion. Asten gently disconnected the hose and pulled the intubator from his friend's mouth even as the alarm on the life support systems started to sound. Asten set a shaky hand on top of Quincy's pale one, and he waited as the EKG flatlined, Quincy's heart not even trying to beat on its own. Guilt and hollow agony filled him as every indication of life died on the monitors, just as it had the day his father had ceased to exist; and Robert J. Asten knew then that he wouldn't be able to continue in his capacity at the LACC. He wouldn't be able to face the ghosts that would lurk around every corner, waiting for him to be swallowed up by their memories. His career as a doctor was finished. He gripped his friend's hand tighter, and closed his eyes, saying a silent prayer for the eternal rest of Quincy's soul.

But his eyes suddenly shot open in panic. He stared down at the man he loved yet couldn't save, and he felt it again: Quincy's hand moved. Asten leaned down inches from his friend's face, speaking softly.

"Quincy?" He brushed a hand over the coroner's brow. "Quincy...please...come back to me."

Monahan, Brill, Melissa, Sam and Danny all inched closer around the bed, holding a collective breath at the scene playing out before them. Asten checked Quincy's pupils, pulse and respiration, and a slow smile tugged at his lips.

"Come on you stubborn mule, fight for it." His voice grew in volume and intensity, "Come on, damn you! Fight! Pick up the beat, Quincy, let's go! I run a tight ship, damn you, and I'm not tolerating a half-assed attempt from you!"

And a huge cough exploded from Quincy's chest, and Asten sat on the edge of the bed, holding a kleenex to his patient's mouth. "That a boy, Quincy, clear your lungs." The coroner coughed again, and then took a huge gasp of air. "That a boy," Asten said, his voice full of raw emotion.

Slowly, Quincy's eyes fluttered and after a minute or so, the large blue-gray eyes stared in disbelief at the tear-streaked faces of his closest friends. "What's the matter with all of you?" He said weakly, mock annoyance coloring his tone, "You didn't think I'd actually leave any of you in charge of LA County murder investigations, did you? Now get outta here and let me sleep..."

With smiles on their faces and joy in their hearts, his friends began to clear out of the room, but Quincy grabbed Asten's sleeve as the man started to go. "Bob, wait..." Once the room was empty except for the two of them, the coroner spoke again. "Why are you so hard on yourself, buddy?"

"What are you talking about? I'm not--"

"--Bob, I heard what you whispered in my ear." Asten's eyes flicked up sharply to meet Quincy's, and the coroner nodded. "Every word of it. I knew then that I had to live if for no other reason but to make you understand your own value. Your father's death wasn't your fault, any more than mine would have been." Quincy swallowed hard, feeling the exhaustion of his own condition. "Stay with me for awhile?" He asked tiredly.

Asten nodded, squeezing Quincy's hand. "You bet I will."

Quincy drifted toward sleep. "I lost my brother a week ago," he muttered, his eyes closing, "but today I realized I still have one..."

Asten's dark brown eyes misted over with emotion as he whispered, "You did hear me, you damned old mule..."

The End


End file.
